There are heroes unknown to those
Who worship the celebrities smiling
Or frowning, as the case may be,
At the supermarket checkout counters,
On TV talk programs, on billboards
That implore us to buy a product,
See a movie, take a trip to an exotic place,
Somewhere we can forget what we are
In the bigger scheme of things.
The woman who brings the mail,
In the heat, the cold, the rain, the Santa Ana
Winds that carry the desert’s dessicated breath
All the way to the inexorably rising sea,
Knowing that her motley bestowal
Will go, almost immediately, to the reclycling bin.
And yet she always smiles, says Hello,
How’re you doing? I knew her name once,
But now it’s gone, buried with other facts
In a hidden corner of the brain that rusts,
Not of disuse or neglect, but from an oversupply
Of information, most of it worthless,
Mistakenly allowed to collect in the belief
That it mattered. That vast knowledge would
Be the mark of heroism, when in fact that elusive
State of being arises not from anything grandiose,
But small, diligent, infinitely repeated acts
Of good will. Like smiling and saying Hello
When trudging the same drab street every day,
Bringing the unwanted mail.
© Dennis Hathaway
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