This poem is for the man who rang
and left the package I ordered
two days ago
to feel better
about myself--
He rang and left the package along with the
letters for me,
though he didn’t leave them,
he put them in my hand--
I have a friend who is a mailman
and he is a good mailman
and I never thought about
the ringing of the bell
the doorbell
I don’t care either way, if the doorbell rings
or not
but my friend said the doorbell
annoys some people
plus it takes longer and he would never
finish his route,
if he rang the doorbell.
This poem is for the other man.
He is not a better man than my friend,
not at all.
I don’t know him, this man that rang my
doorbell
but when I opened the door,
because it was Saturday and I happened to
be home
I saw that his hands were rough, and they
had bandages.
He had rung my door
and I told him
how grateful I was for him being so kind.
I don’t know if he brings the mail every day.
I don’t often see who brings the mail,
but today I saw who brings the mail
because I understood that he was made
on purpose for a purpose by God
and I wanted to thank him.
It is so nice to be thought of--
sometimes just ringing a bell
is nice
is a gift
is enough--
and you don’t have to stay long.
You don’t even have to come in.
You, whoever you are,
are a gift.
