Unopened letters

Some mornings come in hazy light;
sun rays that flutter between the curtains
and the dusty oak beams,
run along the ceiling digging
my eyes of blue sleepiness
and the ding ding ding of the bell.

Letters fall onto unopened letters,
lemming upon lemming jumping off cliffs
chased by the postman.
He’s good old routine, he’s like clockwork,
well mannered, posh voice,
a pensioner, who likes his route,
stands by the glass door, peeps in,
and with another ding ding ding
waits with a registered letter, for kicks,
for me to appear,
swaying,
in my nightie.

My hands flutter with waiting.
The green bottle, the shot glass,
not enough anymore.
I watch in silence, deep in the corner
behind the piano. The sky changes colour,
sun higher, clouds forming,
birds like bullets shooting past,
hit the sky and disappear,
a fire engine on the motor way, a siren.
I think of Rilke.
Rilke,

how he must have felt
on his deathbed, mad about life to go,
so certain, the raptor
hungry-eyed for some tired flesh
anyone’s, anywhere,
resting, some warm hand
to stroke and calm the flutter.

I know about flight when it’s time
to go, when things stop growing.
You just leave in the old banger,
listen to the radio
until songs wear down.
Feel old kisses scan over the body
like a feather duster, for the touch of it
dusting off the sad and lonely
get-hold-of-it feeling
of a last lover,
nibbles at my ear.
Just stay a little,

until tomorrow
grips me again,
and I fly with the birds,
leave the postman
behind.