I Got The Message
The letter was halfway openedBefore I thought about the road-name
On the envelope
Not being the same
As mine.
No one else has ever lived in my house
So I continued to tear
At the letter for not me, not my spouse.
The words inside
Were for a person in a similar-called street.
The words inside
Were far from being a treat.
The poorly-written address
Belonged to a now-goodbyed but unaware
Lady who
Was currently breakfasting without a care.
I read the last lines:
The apology-lines of writer's pain-
Avoidance
In this "Dear Jane"
She was coffee-and-cornflaking
And toasting
With a smile:
No thoughts of the roasting
That her no-more paramour
Was giving her in lines
Of the cowardliness
In-keeping with the code of swines.
I decided to take the letter
And deliver it to the writeful
Owner.
I wasn't being spiteful;
I justified
The act of delivery
By thinking it better now-and-get-the-start-of-hurt-over-with
That she should receive these words of yellow-livery.
As I approached her house,
I saw her kissing
A husbandlike man
In a way that showed that there was nothing missing
From their wedding vows.
I couldn't assume
That this apparently
Bride-and-groom
Were faultless
Or in a state
That was all happy
And free from hate
So I waited for her to reach the path
And asked if the address belonged
To her.
She looked with a look of the wronged.
Then said that she was always
Getting post for this incorrect
Address
And was fed-up with having to redirect
To the very-similarly named street.
She asked if I knew how to get to it:
I certainly did –
I very much knew it:
My street,
My house,
The no-name called "Dear Darling":
My spouse.
13:09, Tue. 20/01/2009.
Poetry by Mark J. Wood
Read 1012 times
Written on 2009-01-21 at 15:18
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