Killing the Lives, a Tragic Children's Poem

In a truck shaped like a box that pedaled like a snail
Arthur G. drove door-to-door delivering the mail.

When neighbors came to talk to him, he fled with desperation
For when he worked he couldn’t get caught up in conversation.

However, on a route that once belonged to his friend Bert
Turned his when he found out that his dear friend had gotten hurt.

A favor, he could handle — sending mail was his life
A job that took him over when he lost his troubled wife.

Like a pro, he sent out mail to the people on his list
But there was something fishy about one of the houses, he’d insist.

They mailed things with mystery and always kept indoors
He’d never even see their son outside doing his chores.

No matter how suspicious, though their manners might’ve been
They were his clients — first and most — and hiding was no sin.

Until the day he found a note addressed to their homestead
Its sender’s words were scribbled, and in the corner was all red.

It soaked, in fact, and to his first impression, he thought ill
The “red” looked just like blood, as if the parchment had been killed.

He worried for their sake; the letter could’ve been a ploy
Maybe filled with poison like the giant horse in Troy.

It wasn’t till he saw the frequent sending of the letters
That he decided keeping them himself would be much better.

One can never trust a person hiding under words
At least, that was a credo that he personally preferred.

The letters piled up inside his lonely little home
Atop a rocking chair that held the mail like a throne.

The post was jailed up for days and weeks and months and seasons
And while it was illegal, Arthur knew he had his reasons.

A minor crime to save a life was hardly crime at all
And thinking him a criminal was something to appall.

In the only letter of them he had read to know for sure
Were simple lines that stuck with him that hardly were obscure.

“Instructions will be sent, be sure to follow them as planned
Be careful what you say, in case we’re caught on chance offhand.”

While it might have seemed as if the addressee was first the victim
It troubled Arthur strongly that these people might’ve tricked him.

What once seemed like harassment from a no good-doing sender
Was actually conversing between two sneaky offenders.

It was a clever ruse, he thought, to keep suspicions low
Conversing through the mail so that no one would ever know.

It was impossible to tell what specifically it was
He assumed it could just be a plot for killing, maybe drugs.

But where he could’ve given up, thinking he was played a fool
He knew he had them in his palm, his title as his tool.

As long as he still had his clout with mail distribution
They’d never get away with their well thought out execution.

He’d heard it on the news before, the terror overseas
Making rounds more close to home for basic rights to seize.

His friends and neighbors warned him interfering could be dire
They told him prying only added more fuel to the fire.

But warnings he saw just as fear of making a connection
To an obvious attempt at terrorist deliberation.

He’d show up at the house with all the mail they’re subscribed
While keeping all suspicious ones tucked safely by his side.

By some point, in the midst of all their mail inactivity
The man Arthur was wary of made himself known publicly.

His hair was wrought and underneath his eyes were sullen bags
And the pants and shirt he wore seemed even dirtier than rags.

He threatened Arthur, knowing there was something going on
All he wanted were the letters Arthur had withdrawn.

Fearing for his safety, Arthur stubbornly refuted
“If you’re having trouble, call the Office and dispute it.”

But the sickly-looking man gave no real hint of abdication
He smelled and had not bathed in weeks through sheer determination.

Things had gotten out of hand as Arthur’s friends predicted
The thoughts he had of maybe saving lives became conflicted.

But he had dug himself too deep and in over his head
And commodities like bailing hung on barely tethered thread.

He thought that he could kill the live stamps on his own accord
That way, the letters couldn’t get sent out into the world.

But thoughts of doing something good for worthy recognition
Became a good example of his stubborn indiscretion.

His job of liabilities of other people’s things
Made him doubt himself of his imaginative flings.

But still, nevertheless, he was still stuck in quite a bind
One of doubtful endings and the consequential kind.

He had his duties, though, and while it all was surely daunting
He made his rounds of routes and roads, his day just barely dawning.

At the address in the sticks with nary neighbor in a mile
Number forty-twelve awaited Arthur and beguiled.

It frightened him — the home — as such a mystery it was
What were these people up to and what was possibly the cause?

But Arthur needn’t worry any longer of the motive
For everything that followed parking quickly turned explosive.

The man who dressed in rags and had the bags under his eyes
Attacked him with ferocity and no need for disguise.

He yelled and hollered, smashing Arthur’s truck as he did please
And not even a cry from Arthur barely made him seize.

He dragged the postman from his mobile haven to the ground
And beating him, he dragged him to the house without a sound.

He sat him down, inside, under interrogating lights
Asking what he wanted, who he was, and all the like.

Bleeding from his nose and shaking off the fear and cold
The truth was nearly there, as was his end as he was told.

The stranger shouted violently, perturbed with all the strife
And at the kitchen table, Arthur noticed the man’s wife.

Crying in a pillow that could hardly fit her face
She hugged it with all might and seemed completely lost in space.

In fact, when Arthur glanced around the home, he felt bemused
A mess of toys for children filled the ground, but all unused.

However, he could not imagine children living there
And even if they had, he heard nor saw any of them near.

While ideas raced his mind of what to make of all the madness
The man placed something small and square in front of Arthur’s glasses.

The “something” was a picture, small enough to fit a pocket
But the man could hardly hold it as it fell upon the carpet.

For once, the villain seemed to have a weak spot, after all
With even his wife helpless, gone, and fleeing down the hall.

The man had finally begged him who he was and what he wanted
As Arthur lost the courage that had kept him so undaunted.

And then, it had occurred to Arthur, sitting in the chair
Reminding himself that there weren’t any children anywhere.

He picked the photo up off of the floor where it had landed
And staring at it, hardly heard the man while he demanded.

He juggled back his memory to the only letter read
But the words seemed all so different when he realized what they said.

What he’d rashly judged to find to be unlawful conversation
Were warnings and instructions for a ransom operation.

For weeks, he had delayed them for their chance to find their son
And just when Arthur thought, for once, that he had finally won.

The man picked up the pillow that belonged to his young boy
And tidying up the room, he cleaned up each and every toy.

The room had finally cleared, leaving Arthur all alone
As he thought — and it lingered — one should always mind ones own.

Mood: Surprised

goes_to_ricks at 02:30 AM Aug 30

Thanks for reading and the critiques. Much appreciated. And I agree especially with the "publicly" part. I don't care much for that verse. Needs some change.

goes_to_ricks at 02:30 AM Aug 30

goes_to_ricks at 02:30 AM Aug 30

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