Matthew Douglas

Lost Mailman (For JP)

They say a man’s no good at sorrow,
He runs straight into his rage.
No use for all of the fussing,
Stay warm inside the tiger cage.
Friends come and go like lightning,
Family runs the same dark path.
Smiling days last ‘bout as long as,
The man above forgets his wrath.

Chi-town had itself a big ol’ fire,
It burned Holy Name to the ground.
Searched for hours through the ashes,
Not a single soul could be found.
The world’s living with a headache,
That all good men and women share.
I like to set down on the inside,
Gently whisper, hello out there.

The clown’s on top of his mountain,
Dressed in a foolscap of shame.
Best confess our transgressions,
That jester takes none of the blame.
The poet dreamed a sad minstrel,
Ain’t that how the old story goes?
Hard to see the true picture,
With sorrowed souls in dust shadows.

Lonely streets and sad, silent stages,
A rider came, plague for the ages.
No rhyme or meaning behind the sword,
Still breath in rooms for beggar or Lord.
Whiskey burns a magnificent haze,
Dark lenses block more than the sun's rays,
Wish the Savior had swallowed his pride,
On the night that John Prine died.

Matthew R. Douglas is a writer and musician from Syracuse, New York; his poetry often draws on family, song traditions, and the lives of working musicians.