Dear Mr. Jonathon Wootliff,
I thought, as it’s Tuesday, I would if
I could send a letter marked ‘personal’
(regret that it has to be in verse an’ all -
not averse are you, bureaucrat darling,
my fine-feathered, city-shine starling,
my first-class delivery lover,
my solicited male in plain cover?).
I was going to tell you it’s over,
an end to the romps in the clover,
to the heat, to the wine, to the kissing -
though I’m missing you, missing and missing.
In dejection, in gloom, in despondence
I am ending our dear correspondence.
I was going to tell you the reasons,
why letters and lovers have seasons,
how it’s terribly, terribly pricy
(plus it’s terribly, terribly dicy)
to enthuse in my silver-starred writing,
on black, that you’re deeply exciting.
Think of the cost of the franking,
the paper, the card, just for thanking
you, dear one, my dark-suited honey -
it’s simply a question of money.
The percentage of amorous letters
exchanged by our elders and betters
was high. You
enthused. And you’re sorry
that now there are few.
For you worry...
Today it is Tuesday.
I’m spending
just 17p and I’m sending
this last written ode (not a sonnet).
My telephone number is on it.
(September, 1985)
