...or Tunnel Vision, Concentrate !
[A picture from PwP Inspiration Corner]
Tubular quells the extrovert -
an old field for the well aware -
and once confined, more pliable -
the packed, but not the package, here.
Here’s how it’s done: ‘fit man in tube’ -
the ‘fit’ is verb, not adjective -
no need for lube, just push and pull,
for gritty stuff brings smooth from rough -
an oyster, with a pearl of price.
Despatch him, slim-fit, down the line,
compact his stretch, no wriggle room,
his span contained in longitude
and keep him calm, stare fixed ahead.
Await arrival - mind that step -
stamp not his carriage ‘fragile’, red,
for that invites a final fling -
the last thing for the travel sick,
or there we are with Kwells again.
A plain brown wrapper - I misheard
for Rasta with his sharp clipped verse -
meant mail of doubtful parentage,
(know what I mean, discreet in lieu?)
a top shelf, though too, top drawer choice -
leave bottom drawer for wedding bits.
Me, old days, parcel tied with string,
containing knobbles, wobbles, spill,
for shoving through a letter box.
But here prepacked, cylindrical,
like blooms sent, overnight bouquet -
while escalating queues stand still
though carried forward, standing right,
both up and subterranean -
my pre-trapped lad arrives on cue,
on door mat waiting my pick up,
a straight laced boy (just see his face)
because of his straightjacket tube.
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