To Keep In Touch

You are a bad god.
Ted Hughes


The mention, over hummingbirds,
that a loved one, colleague, cretin,
the one that, this instant, needs to receive
your undulating tribute, wet mwah,
cursory coffee offer, professional advice,
Dante-inflammatory, cough,
is pompously unavailable, stings.

The referral, over origami,
from busy progeny, in-laws, mistresses,
those that, in a few days, should hear
of bereavement, sickness, convalescence,
ugly promotions, champion inheritances,
conceited invoices, holiday forms,
to the post office, dustbin, smarts.

The promise, over time,
by feudal lords, angels, priests,
everyone who, immediately, should know
your postcode, cinematic embrace,
thunderclap wrath, thawing sentiment,
infant content, ephemeral love,
to keep in touch, wheezes, closes.