I’m allergic to junk mail.
My chiropractor prescribed calcium capsules
and a disappeared mailbox,
he proclaimed at our last consultation:
“purchase a one way ticket to Canada by canoe,
you will feel a certain relief, a quickening in your
cardio-sternum as the box floats away”,
as his well researched treatment protocol.
Night after night I trudge upstairs and carry inside
my casa umpteen petitions to save the caribou in Alaska
and those sixteen wolves in Yellowstone,
compulsive outcries, these crazed repetitive pleas
from the local public broadcaster for my annual cash
(why can’t they cease and desist, find another career?)
and thick wads of unruly paper stinking my fingers
with cheap printer’s ink exhorting my consumer self
to let the inner addict out into the holy marketplace of Geico
and the local pizza joint and save some bucks by spending more
on cannolis, car insurance, and let’s not forget to use
those little coupons for reduced price car washes,
my poor itchy skin commences to look like crimson
lunar pockmarks or Cancun twitching after a 6.6 earthquake
creased the tropical city into fiery folds of broken ground,
not a single chiropractor in sight and all the mailmen have
crammed their kids into cars to caravan towards Quebec,
they heave and careen around curves heading north
as I scratch and scratch, smear hydrocortisone cream across
acres of derma and read the latest news,
oh god or goddess of junk mail will you ever hear my calls?
I am down on my last plucky swollen scabby knees,
I’ve rid myself of mailboxes and fired the quack I’d hired,
it’s my turn for some good luck,
won’t you listen, please!
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