Buckets of sweat

In a laggard mood,
With the back aching,
The head echoing,
The hands sprouting,
I do my work.

I work all day long,
With piles of letters to deliver,
To their respective
And corrective persons,
Yes, I do my work.

I know the paddle,
As the fish knows the waters
And the handle bars,
Just a belt to a trousers,
Yes, to complete my routine
As my job description entails.

I work for the Zimpost,
I work for my survival,
In pools and swarms,
I stick to my work,
A ‘Mr. Postman’, though,
My wife calls me a husband
And my children,
A father!