It has happened to me several times.
I placed my book order with Amazon
and Prime delivered the package to
the apartment on the first floor above
me.
I’m in the subterranean # 1 apartment
below. The unit above me is #101 not
#1.
Now, I’ve never met the folks living in
apartment #101, and quite frankly I
don’t care to know them, for I cling
to my privacy and anonymity.
Besides, I consider them as dishonest.
They have likely kept those misdirected
Amazon deliveries which belonged
to me in the first place.
There are drawbacks to living an
innocuous and invisible life here on
Planet Earth.
Why, even folks I know on line,
Facebook Friends and All Poetry
people, have no real idea about
me and how I live.
What in hell does he I look like?
What pleases and disturbs him day
after day, anyway?
I post pretty pictures and pithy
poetry on line, but there is an
unkempt persona and piles of
dirty laundry which surround me.
Most don’t realize I hobble in pain,
bitch, grumble and complain with
each and every step I take.
Few know that I watch MSNBC,
curse Trump and his sycophants
and constituents most every breath
of my day.
I disgustingly slather my bologna
sandwhich for lunch with gobs of
mayonnaise.
I pick my nose with uncanny fre-
quency, and scratch in places no
one would care to see.
Oh, I’m perfectly fine with me, but
would be totally unacceptable in
polite society.
Is it any wonder that the Prime de-
livery guy or gal brings my packages
to the wrong apartment, #101 upstairs.
Those folks are likely more conforming
and acceptable to prim and proper social
mores than I could ever hope to be.
Enjoy my recent order with Amazon
when it arrives, folks. I hope Bukowski’s
reviling poetry and the aforementioned
imagery of me makes you puke.
-30-
Chris Hanch 9-14-2020
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