It Must Get There Before Sunday

Flustered gents in a post office queue
trying so hard to look important -
feverish glances at wrist-watches,
straightening of ties.

Hyper-confident movers and shakers
reduced to schoolboy awkwardness -
laptops clamped under their arms,
white-knuckled grip on Jiffy Bags

contents mummified in bubble-wrap,
trussed up with crumpled Jumbo Tape,
addressed in strangely child-like writing.

Their mobiles ring - setting nerves on edge
shifting from foot to foot, they mutter
hushed excuses

about working-lunches that over-ran -
contractual obligations pending - tricky stages
of negotiations.

This is the one they won’t palm off
on a personal secretary.
That's OK for buying those 'special' gifts
for their wives - and mistresses -

they still believe it isn’t obvious.

But this is far too close to home,
and you can see they’re starting to sweat -
offering up some silly money

when told there is an outside chance
that their fragrant gifts for Mother
might not arrive on time.