The Love Letters

Don’t dare shred me one Tuesday afternoon

In a corner of your dismal office,

Or spend two minutes of the life you’ve settled for

Pondering if I can be recycled in the blue 

Rather than composted down in the brown.

Don’t even think about turning me

Into recollected-in-tranquillity, 

Re-imagined and therefore rubbish poems.

If you give her a new name and write A Sequence

I swear, I swear I will scream like she did.

She loved you, she hated you,

For the love of God man up:

Burn me in a gaping Victorian grate, 

Hurl me from the cliff in a hessian bag

And make it good enough for Alan

Bates or Rickman on Saturday night TV.