a poem by David Smith
I went to the post office the other day
I took with
me some bills to pay
I stood for a while at the end of the queue
is how things are done this I did not rue
I approached the counter feeling reasonably good
transaction completed I had done what I could.
As I departed I noticed a figure
who darted across as
though someone pulled a trigger
He went to the window that I had just left
for those in the queue so bereft.
This chap had achieved his gaol and taken the place
of a polite old lady, what a disgrace.
Should we adopt a code like the old West?
fire-arms under our vest?
If we did some people would be taught a swift, terrible
and lasting lesson
as the silver haired old dear mowed them down with her
Smith and Wesson.
She would then take her place at the counter with a
relief of tension
and collect some stamps, envelopes and her old age
This is the way that things seem to be going
good manners and patience away we are throwing.
Would it hurt to show some courtesy and consideration.
even a little just enough that wed call it moderation
If we tried to calm ourselves just a bit
may become a little more fit?
With this new found placidity and calm
rediscover our national charm?
© 2001 David Smith