The parcel arrived on Tuesday.
Even though he didn't sign for it.
He didn't need to, you see.
The postman trilled the doorbell,
It came with a cheery smile.
To big for the letterbox,
Feared to leave it outside
(In case of sneaky thieves.)
The grin left with the Postie,
Leaving only the package in his hands,
Which were soon empty,
For the parcel that arrived on Tuesday
Sat unwrapped upon the kitchen counter.
Brown, square, half-a-shoe-box size.
No markings except for postal dents,
Address label, correct amount of Queen's headed stamps
Plus lots of shiny tan sticky tape,
Peeling at the edges,
Crying out to be picked at, lifted and ripped.
His fingers flexed, desiring to tear at the box
And touch the secrets beneath,
But he couldn't.
It wasn't his.
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