John sits and wastes away by his bedroom window,
Looking out to the dampened street with broken blue eyes,
And the mailbox shines back at him under the moon aglow -
As he holds the bottle of whiskey and softly sighs.
And from sunrise to sunset he sits by the window sill,
Waiting to see the postman stop and hand him a letter,
But as the children run to and fro - no sign of him still,
Crying, he whispers his forgotten words to her sweater.
But from the corner of his eyes he sees a man in blue,
Stopping to check his list as he walks and shakes his head,
And John runs out just to hear: "Sorry Sir, there's no letter for you."
But as he bowed his head to leave, he turned back and said:
"Please, Mr Postman, for five years I have waited for you,
To just once place a letter addressed to me in my aging hands,
And everyday, you walk by here and look at me so true,
Before you shake your head and stare down to my wedding band -
If you're wondering, she left me but told me she'd write,
And when I looked at her, I knew she wasn't lying,
So just tell me, there's a letter there for me, am I right?"
And the postman looked back at him, slowly denying -
"Sir, if there was a letter here I would hand it to you,
But there's not so you'll just have to hold on and wait,"
John bowed his head and sighed: "I wish that were true,
But please, Mr Postman, tell me so I can get my head straight."
And as that postman looked into eyes that he knew,
He took a deep breath as he lifted up his mail sack,
And holding a letter, he looked to John's eyes of blue,
As tears filled in his own of green, he turned his back.
John hit his old knees in the early morning dew,
As he read over the tattered words she had wrote,
And he looked behind for a rival he never knew,
Walking alone with letters in a black and worn tote.
