the envelope slits open easily, as most do.
you must go, and write a poem about
hedgehogs, hopefully hedgehogs who know
how to gather blackberries (their eyes glinting
back, fresh and unrelenting) crowding the tin pail,
from which mother will make
comforting puddings in oil-painted Ireland
mend the fence, too, whilst you have
a chance, before the neighbors speak
shred that last renewal notice
and enclosed promotional slips for tote bags and
embossed with the elegant gentleman
who hasn't a whiff of silage about him--
bury 'em deep beneath that stony grey soil....
ah, how the lights dim!
turn up the gas, scald the pot,
and make tea for the both of us
before we're off to bed