Date: Wed, 7 Apr 1999 09:37:37 EDT From: "Barbara J. Harris" Subject: [WRITERS] SUB: Contest: RPoem/Why Mailmen Carry A Belly Pouch Here's a new submission for the Spring Fiesta Contest! Renaissance Poem category. Remember, all entries are due by April 22, midnight EST! These guys need some competition... write! :) If anyone wants to critique this, please send crits to BarbHare@aol.com, and I will forward them on to the author... WHY MAILMEN CARRY A BELLY POUCH Because on the first sunny day in February I forget that I own an elderly automobile the color of winter in a marsh and walk the line between sickness and sunlight. Somewhere on Main Street by the corner church I meet my snowy friend, the female Samoyed who lives with the hairdresser. On warm days she lays like a pillow on the lawn, the tips of her white coat shimmering like tinsel hair. I often wonder how it happened. A hairdresser looking for living quarters and salon space. Perhaps he walked down Main on a bright day and saw a FOR SALE sign on an ex-church. This looks good, he might have said. Why don't I buy a girl Samoyed to go with it, so I can brush her in my spare time. The plaque at the corner says AD 1938. The extant bulletin board might have once admonished to PRAISE THE LORD! or announced a SUNDAY SERVICE 10:30. Now it says nothing. The church, transformed into a temple to cheratine, has Aveda, Paul Mitchell stickers on the stained glass windows. Going down Main is but a small detour on the way to Janet's, whose warm chai is always ready, hot and frothy and let's not try to find a simile for that. Especially with this ailing heart after the end of my most recent crux desperationis, my latest fruit of forbearance. Because the way I feel now, there are too many hours in a day before I can sleep again and not feel his absence in my mouth, eyes, skin. The pillow-dog bats her white eyelashes and barks softly from the church parvis. The corners of her mouth curl up in a canine smile. She sits for me upon request, even when I nest the word "sit" in a complete sentence: "could you sit for me please." She hugs my leg with careless abandon. Then she goes around the yard and takes small bites from a patch of virgin snow. Two tiny terriers cross Main following the mailman, and it is smiles and tails wagging all around. The mailman greets the Samoyed, who yawns regally in return. With great ceremony he extracts a cookie from his front purse, while she performs a small acceptance dance. The purity of her happiness upon receiving the cookie homage makes the mailman smile and my soul breathe again. And that, I believe, is the reason why god wants all mailmen to carry a belly pouch. _________________________________________________________