Paean to the Postal Service
Imagine writing a deranged love letter
to your crush in 1839,
the year before Sir Rowland Hill, begetter
of concepts that we’re nowadays inclined
to take for granted, like the postage stamp,
made sending mail affordable for all.
In those days, many poor besotted scamps
were short the funds required to appall
their future selves and look like total dopes
by spewing ardor into envelopes;
in fact, back then, the cost of mailing stuff
was sometimes borne by the receivers, not
the senders. (This would be like if some snot
from school called you collect to voice his love.)
Reverie
As a kid, I would dream
that my name was Aurelia—
I quite fancied that name,
for it sounded peculiar,
like the name of no child
in my classroom at school.
My Aurelia was wild,
her pale slender hands cool
on her bow and her arrows,
and her shots never missed.
She canoed through the narrows,
a savant-girl, unkissed.
With two gentleman-soldiers
at her side, she explored,
swung on vines, climbed up boulders,
and solved murders when bored.
When night fell, she got shudders—
the dark filled her with dread.
Her young gentleman-soldiers
gently tucked her in bed.