Running away...

Junk mail pours into my in-box,
as if I am a porn-crazed pervert.
Credit card and loan offers flood
through my door,
as if I am a shopaholic out of control.

Who do they think I am?

They are always trying to find me out,
with their surveys and computer files
and records of my shopping behaviour.
They think they're so clever,
they think they know what makes me tick.

Who do they think I am?

Each letter, each e-mail, each telephone call,
each special offer
is alienating me further.
I will become a recluse, spending nothing,
and holding ritualistic burnings
of the offending intrusions into my life.
I will tape up the letterbox, unplug the phone
and never log on.
They can talk to themselves. Talk into the abyss.
For I will be gone.