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This poem is available as a reading here

The Postman Wears Prada

February 2009 by Mark Hoffmann

I stand at the door.
It's 8 am
and a waspish wind penetrates my bathrobe.
A thousand invisible piranhas
nibble at my scrotum with their icy teeth …

"Sign here!"

I shuffle my fluffy-bunny slippers
and lean closer.

There's something about Postie,
a certain …
I don’t smell what.

Sniff, sniff.
"Is that Prada?"

He proffers his wrist.
"Like it?"

Protocol must be observed.
I take his hand in mine
inhale deeply …
undertones of sandalwood —
no obvious sea-mammal excretions.

The fragrance speaks to me.
It says
it says
it says
     wake up and smell the postman.