Envelopes

He kept the letter. A deflated football made a
duff sound that Saturday morning. "I have the
pleasure of informing you..." et cetera. This,
the only competition he ever won. Regional.
Design a Christmas card. The prize, a calculator.

The calculator was the old LCD type. An antique
now. (His mum still uses it.) A beauty queen turned
up at school assembly, kissed him, handed it over.
The kids rocked barmy. He was in the paper, next
to the girl who came second. Winner. The daddy.

On the envelope, the address was typed the
way you never see now: with a typewriter.

In his life since he has bought 450 envelopes.
Of those, 25 carted thank you notes for Christmas
presents. 37 fell on the doorsteps of lovers.
85 were employed to apply for jobs. 5 to pay for
bills, replacing missing pre-paids. 36 for mail
ordering. 12 for miscellaneous tasks. A pack
of 200 collects dust in a drawer. He has had

two temp jobs involving the licking of envelopes
during which he made nine complaints about
the taste envelopes make. He has had his guts
ripped out both literally and metophorically. He
estimates he has about ten years of endurance

and he might do something; make himself happy.