There’s a hammering on the door,
and again,
aggressive, unnerves me.
I never intended to keep the
money I found.
There are no handcuffs;
I have a parcel.
House numbers should be on the
house, not on the garage door;
he hasn’t got all day to be
looking for where people live.
“Sign ‘ere love”.
I tell him I can’t write;
he frowns, incredulous,
stylus hovers stubbornly
over a grubby screen.
Angry squiggle;
he shouldn’t be doing this,
could lose his job.
Drops the parcel at my feet
and goes,
nought to sixty in seconds.
Morning reprimand.
I must balance this out by saying that some couriers are extremely courteous
and understanding but others…
journeyintopoetry 