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The Post Office Murders
by Dr. Lawrence Nannery
2016-10-27 11:18:36
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The Post Office Murders

It’s when he leaves work that the process begins.
He goes in his cruddy car down the same old streets,
and stops off at the same old cruddy Seven Eleven,
where they never give credit, no matter how long they know you.
Then beers in hand, he comes up the stairs where no one’s home.
The wife flew the coop, fucking for the manager of the store where she works.
The kids are never here, they never come by.
When he calls them on the phone they don’t want to stay on long.
His debts are piling up, and all he has to show is this dump of a furnishing room!

The wife, of course, is not listening – never was.
The kids are not listening – and would never understand.
His mother is dead, and the landlady – the less said about her the better.
He hasn’t seen his girlfriend in weeks.
She’s supposed to be away visiting her mother.
But he suspects she’s found a guy with a lot of less baggage or a lot more money.

All there is to do is to sit in front of this T.V., stroking the throat of his dog,
and drinking beer, sucking wind in through his teeth and farting
as he contemplates the dirty bastard who he works for,
a man who is no man at all, but a smirking, whining bastard,
who thinks he has the right to stand in judgement over him,
who says he could snap his fingers and he’s be gone.

Is that the way it really is? Well, maybe we’ll just see about that.
The dog shies when he gets the gun of the closet.
He puts it on his lap and begins to polish it, grumbling and whistling.
The dog goes to the front door and scratches furiously,
faking having to take a shit in order to escape these fumes coming out of his human.

His feverish mind goes into high gear, as he polishes ferociously as he recites the injustices.
Another batch of beers and we’ll polish this thing up.
Is that so Mrs. Smarty-Pans? Is that so Mr. Big Time?
Well, we’ll see about that, just polish this thing here up,
and – screw everybody – we’ll settle this problem once and for all.

Another batch of beer, and the feverish mind is talking, but as usual no one is listening.
That’s to be expected. Nobody cares.
But now where is that dog? Where the hell is the damn dog?
doesn’t a man have the right to expect that if not his wife, if not his kids, his dog,
his goddamned dog, for Christ’s sake, when he wants somebody to listen, will listen,
as the long night hours slowly blanch into the last day?




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