Like Clockwork

Every afternoon, I know when the mail has come. The dog next door runs down the stairs, barking loudly. I look up, out the window, and the mailman’s tricycle cart rolls across the street to the apartment building across the way, bumping into the mailbox. The mailman follows, rocking from side to side as he walks, looking rather Weeble-ish, dispenses the mail for the building, before sending the cart back across the street to my side of the house with a little push. If I’m not too busy, I start down the stairs myself, reaching the door just in time to meet him, take the mail, and say thanks.