If I Could Post Myself To You

if I could pack myself in a parcel
and post myself via US Post 3-day priority
to you
for your birthday,
a belated pressie, I'd probably be

so beat-up, half-suffocated
by the time I got there, all stinking from
inevitable bodily issues and bloody
from scuffs and bangs, and probably
crying too - because I'd be such a wuss, I have no doubt
- I am a wuss! I have very little threshold
when it comes to stuff like discomfort
at the level of being jammed in a box
for three days shipping and hard handling (DESPITE
THE 'FRAGILE' TAG! BASTARDS!), and I'm sure that I'd

be crying like a baby by the halfway mark,
sitting hemmed into the little limbo
of my me-size box, surrounded by an unseen
pitch blackness

- the outer limbo
of some anonymous, enormous warehouse
facility in-between planes and trucks -

Twisting and twitching
from muscle spasms, rubbing raw
against the constricted cardboard universe
of my own fully-considered and rash
decisions, I'd be softly moaning
through my snot and tears, no doubt: "I
didn't think it would be so HARD, to be MAILED!"

- that you'd probably open it up and say "EW!
YUCK.

Who the hell sent me THIS?"

You'd never find out,
though. Because

I'd long since have eaten the card. Partly
from pure shame, but also from being fucking

STARVED.

Jesus, what a bad idea
that would turn out to be, if I did that.
Lucky, I have
a good imagination! That lets me
put some thought into things,
first.
Totally worth

the extra for overnight.