Poste Restant

I wish I were a baggage to abandon. I wish I were a hold-all to un-hold, With no handle for some bloke to put his hand on Or to plant a snotty kiss that leaves me cold … I wish I were a parcel, square and string-tied, In stout brown paper, not to be un-wrapped; Inscribed in huge red letters, “DON’T PEEP INSIDE! Till I’m dead and gone, and cannot be sent back …” It might be rather fun to be left luggage; To fashion most exquisite, boring days With false teeth and umbrellas in West Dulwich, Or to gather dust in Walton-on-the-Naze … I think I’d like to be a Printed Packet, Forgotten on some sorting-office shelf, With nobody to notice I can’t hack it And no-one else to hassle … Just myself … I want to pass my private rites of passage Simply wrapped up in myself, and “off the ‘phone.” I really DO wish you would get the message … Just like Garbo, dear, “I VANT TO BE ALONE!” ( I found the first line of this poem as a typing exercise on a second-hand computer. It just tickled my fancy! )