Not even a pen,
not valuable enough of Michael Parkinson’s
solemn delivery
urging me to grow older.
I received a letter, friendly in its content,
signed by machine, my name at least correct,
could I be worth up to a quarter of a million
pounds at the time of my death; worried
that I have the odd cigar, I enjoy
a cooked breakfast, over weight but happy,
I looked for the smaller print,
the kind in which makes you think on,
to survive and leave a penny means… what
exactly, I cannot spend it, it won’t get me
into a Heaven I don’t believe in,
or a Hell that would have bouncers
on the door asking for a privilege card, my mark,
my pin and symptoms of having lived
on the back
with a pen I didn’t receive
when they asked me to sign my life away.
Ian D. Hall 2018