Not even a pen,

not valuable enough of Michael Parkinson’s

solemn delivery

urging me to grow older.

I received a letter, friendly in its content,

signed by machine, my name at least correct,

could I be worth up to a quarter of a million

pounds at the time of my death; worried

that I have the odd cigar, I enjoy

a cooked breakfast, over weight but happy,

I looked for the smaller print,

the kind in which makes you think on,

to survive and leave a penny means… what