The Postman Doesn't Call Here Poem by Bryan Sefton

The postman doesn't call here anymore
No letters received and none to send
The letterbox, once a friend with lots to say
Stands quite and dumb
Closed mouthed it's become
There was a time, long ago now
When I would catch it sticking its tongue out at me
And a letter would fall through to the floor
Not anymore

The postman doesn't call here anymore
He just goes whistling through
He has much to do
He doesn't even pause to see
If perchance there's something there for me
His job is hard and his route is long
But not as long as my day's become
Not as long as my day's become
That's for sure

The postman doesn't call here
I have a fear. I have a fear
Not of dying, but having died
And lying here for year after year after year
And no one to say 'poor Molly's passed away
Because no one's noticed or bothered to see
Why there hasn't been a trace of me
They may even say 'she moved away, didn't she?
And all the time a skeleton lies
Gazing out of empty eyes
At the flies on the ceiling