Poem #79

Do you ever worry

That you haven’t quite got it?

That your mailman span and

Dropped on cobbles,

Hastening to deliver your memo?

That, come to think of it,

Your memo’s still pocketed

In his neon-orange jacket

(Which he was entombed with, having died on the job)?

Of course.

You can’t RSVP to that

Which was never received.

Perhaps, sooner or later, in due course,

A gravedigger will exhume the



And slip it

Into your expectant claw.

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