One bright Tuesday morning on completing the preliminaries,
Our postie starts the journey for ESRAmag deliveries.
It begins in heavy traffic that crawls much like a snail,
And after several buses, arrives at Gan Rashal.
Miracles are performed here, without any time's squander,
But to find one's region's bundles requires a trifle longer.
The magazine bundles are banded up with rubber,
Each is properly labeled, to go to no one, other
Than your own sweaty postie, who is bound to carry
A big water bottle for the delivery rally.
The postie's main tool is a large shopping trolley.
For to hand-carry bundles indeed would be folly.
But our streets still contain many curbs and obstructions
And rolling through them must involve interruptions.
When going up bus-steps the postie precedes,
But when going down them the trolley must lead.
This rule seems so simple, now that it's been stated,
But to learn it took an effort and the journey belated.
If the gap 'twixt the step and the curb is so small
That no space remains for the trolley at all,
To lift the caboodle, arms fully extended,
Is the only alternative that's recommended.
The business of sorting and the post-route are set
So at no point on tour there'd be cause to regret
That an address was omitted, with the need to go back
On the journey, so carefully planned for attack.
Of course, there are times when additional members
Spoil the old route and one has to remember
To place the new residence inside the long list
And ensure that its letter-box will not be missed.
If a post-box could speak it would say "fill me quick".
"Push aside other letters by any mean trick,
And ensure that your recently great contribution
Will enliven my owner and his constitution."
Some slots are so small that the mag requires folding,
And enwrap other contents that the box may be holding.
But, since the delivery has to be done
It's no use complaining, and sometimes it's fun
When a big empty box takes the mag with a "plop"
And the postie can feel he has done a good job.
If you find this to be an indifferent ode,
It was written for one who supplies your abode.
With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge