We always sent postcards,

We always sent postcards,

Hunted them down

Chose them, especially

Whether they were for Aunty Jean

Or Uncle John

Some were straight-laced

Panoramic views

Whilst others were quite saucy

And would not be addressed to Grandma.

Sometimes they were posted

From an exotic isle abroad

With only one collection

Every other Thursday

At five past noon

Of course, these rarely arrived

Until after we were home

Boring friends with photographs

Or worse, a showreel.

Nowadays, we overshare online

Missing the irony,

Believing a red heart denotes interest

When it is more than likely

A lazy nod

As we look down our nose

In the general direction

Of real connection,

Without actually committing

To any form of human contact.

Whatever happened to philatelists

When the foreign stamps

Dried up?

I remember looking for a Penny Black

As if I ever would have found one

They were worth a fortune

Way back when.

My guess is

That they would be worth as much

As a small country’s whole economy

Lichenstein or Luxemburg

Rich man’s playthings

The lack of nostalgia in wealth

Is just as it always was

Whatever happened to the telegram?

Or Bakelite?

Nowadays, I rarely send a card

Whether it be from Scarborough

Or Katmandu

As the words,

Wish you were here

Would only be true

If they were said to you.