Randy McClave (Ashland, Kentucky)
Occupant, occupant, occupant I always get their mail,
I wonder if I read it or trash it, will I be sent to jail,
When I get home from work, their mail is stuffed inside my mailbox,
It is mixed in with my own personal mail, it becomes my drawer of socks.
Who do they think they are, to send their mail to my home,
As I receive their catalogs and invitations, and even requests for a loan.
Occupant, occupant, occupant that is how the mail is addressed,
And after seeing their catalogs, I must say that I am highly impressed,
Furniture and clothing and plant brochures this person has great taste,
But sadly they don't want to see or receive their mail, seems like such a waste.
I have walked up and down my block, to see if I could find out who they are,
But I cannot ever find them, and others also get their mail… how bizarre.
Occupant, occupant, occupant that is the address on all these letters,
And the only mail that is addressed to me, are the ones from the debtors,
I stopped and asked my mail person about this person at my behalf,
And then when I complain about getting their mail; at me she did laugh.
So, now I keep all of their mail inside a big box inside my closet,
And almost every day to their collection, I make another mail deposit.
Randy L. McClave
Comments about this poem (Occupant by Randy McClave )
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