Parcel

If the postman knew, or cared,

For how I sat and waited,

Stared,

Or how, at each approaching van

I rushed downstairs, and ran and ran

To hear the silent mocking ‘thwat’

Of nothing

Falling on the mat,

Or maybe the machine-gunned ‘thunk

thunk thunk thunk thunk’ of adverts,

junk,

Then would he have a heart so hard

To leave a sad distorted card

Saying

‘Sorry you were out when we called’?

 

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