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My Pity Party Poem
In my mail box all alone
Addressed to “resident”
A leaflet tells of all the sales
That came and may have went
I wonder if a friend of mine
Would shop those stores with me
On second thought, I wonder who
That friend of mine would be
In the shuffle of my life
They somehow slipped away
The friends that once surrounded me
Cannot be found today
But if I had them back again
It might take all my time
Walking down those shopping malls
And spending our last dime
I’d pick and choose one of them
To go along with me
To eat a meal for a special deal
“Buy one get one free”
My family might complain to me
How hard I am to find
Or anytime they’d try to call
They can’t get through my line
I might have told a friend some things
That no one else would know
Like in the night how hard I try
To keep my sobs down low
I’d tell of when my pillows turned
Upon its other side
I find that its been soaked right through
From all the tears I’ve cried
I’d share with them how hard its been
So many times to fail
But then again, if I had a friend
There’d be much less to tell
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The Bulk Mail Blues
Written in 1978
A lot of things in my life I’ve never learned to do
Even simple things like cook and spell
A lot of dreams through my life I’ll never see come true
But I have surely learned to bundle mail
I’ve watch the sun rise many times on mornings like today
Reading names and zips ‘til I was blue
Sometimes I think I surely must just mail my life away
For I do it all in my sleep, too
The mailing list just seems to grow, there seems to be no end
I have letters running out my ears
Between the ink and glue this life must surely be a sin
Just last night I put on ten full years
But, oh the times we’ve spent alone, just me and my mail bag
Together we’ve shared many a load
We’ve sung some songs and shed some tears, it’s really not so bad
I thank the Lord each night that He made zip code
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The Curse
Eden would have been the place
To live and breathe and be
Had it not have been
For one forbidden tree
For when Eve bit into the fruit
God looked down and saw
Then scooped up a fist of mud
And made a mother-in-law
For never had there been before
Someone to fan the fire
To stir the stink and be the fink
That we know as the liar
This curse passed down through the years
As if on wings to fly
I guess like that ol’ sayin’ goes
They’re just too mean to die
Written in 1982
P.S. This poem has nothing to do with my mother-in-law.
She’s a great sport!
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