By Connie Bensley
The postman is in love
and all of us are bearing the brunt.
My newsletter from the Secular Society
went to the Vicar. The Vicar’s bank statement
arrived at Number 33, who steamed it open
then put something extra in the collection
on Sunday. Coarse seaside postcards
have caused offense to Lavinia, who was
in mourning, and I personally was expecting
a love letter rather than
the Bus Timetable, copies of which
I keep receiving, day after day.
We are getting together to offer him
counseling. Every day he is seen
Staring into the pond, his disordered letter-sack
trembling on the brink.
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