Voicemail Poems

Three weeks to Christmas. We bide our time on the line by conjuring posties of the past— side-burned and handcuffed, the ones in ‘81 who dared to defy back to work orders. Got the whole country maternity leave. Now we fight traffic in trucks that hit 40 degrees, deliver an endless stream of Sephora and Nespresso, spend hours alone with the clang of keys on metal, compete with the Amazon drivers for free parking spots and as we pass each other on the street they sometimes stop to ask: It’s a good job right? For the benefits? A good job is any job that keeps you out of a tent. We probably wouldn’t defy like the legends of ’81, too many struggling with groceries and rent. Here’s the talking head on the news again. Sound bites smooth as the 300 thread count shirt he has on. As if we are a private business, not a rusting crown corporation. Meant to serve all citizens of the nation, including its workers who are crippled by inflation. Every postie’s got a side hustle and a secret dream. Lauren sews crafts