MONGOLIAN HU

It pops up on my cellphone: package delivered.  I go running down to the mailroom to receive my goods.  I find my package on the floor near the mailboxes.  I guess UPS doesn’t have the key to my mailbox.

There is a teenage girl sitting Indian style on the floor chatting away on her cellphone.  Apparently there’s some serious shit going on in her love life.  She is completely oblivious to my package laying on the floor and barely even acknowledges my presence.  I take a quick gander at the name on the package to make sure it is mine. 

I’m thinking that if this young lady was a fan of Mongolian rock music, she could have made off with my package.  She squandered a golden opportunity to expand her musical palette—which I suppose is good for me.

Now I can listen to the Hu and enjoy the primal sounds.  I don’t know if I want to ride a horse through Asian steppes or just crack open a beer.  I don’t have a horse or the funds for a flight to Ulaan Baatar but I do have plenty of beer in the fridge.  The decision is made for me.  It’s all coming together.  I feel inspired listening to something new and different. 

I think back to the young lady in the mailroom.  I’m really grateful she had no interest in pinching my CD.  I’m really hoping that she can work things out with Bobby.  I’d go back and give her some advice but my advice probably isn’t worth shit.  I may never know how that relationship works out—and it might be awkward if I ask her about the next time we meet.  I turn my attention back to the music.  A song reminds me a bit of AC/DC.  I pour the beer into a Viking mug purchased in Iceland.  It may be a decent day after all.

MONGOLIAN HU | PostPoems

Published by fuchebuyahoocom

poet, philosopher and comic. Philadelphia born but suburban bred.

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