Heck, just email them back and demand they add some of those desserts to the package.
I am deeply suspicious like, I will find a dog tooth in it. Or you know, a tooth in general. When the big dog was teething, I kept a few. This is because I wanted the kid to take it in to the school nurse, when you lose a tooth in school, they give you a treasure chest to take it home in. *I* felt the kid needed a few more of those chests, so I instructed him to take one to the school nurse. I wanted to see if she'd notice. Oh, she NOTICED alright, I had to rescue the poor kid from assured destruction, like and solemnly affirm it was truly and entirely MY idea. I still asked if my kid could have a treasure chest though, because it was clearly the parent at fault and like, the kid DID deserve one for following instructions.
I want the poetry. I love bad poetry. You know, not Emely Dickinson bad, but armature bad. I sincerely should try to get enough poems published so that I could teach a poetry class, is how much I love it.
Here's one I wrote a while ago I found. It MAY have the title of a pop song. I can't remember. Like that is one of my biggest issues with poetry coming up with a great title and being informed by my poetry class "Why did you name it after a Peter Gabriel song?" And I'd be like, "I didn't." and they would be like "Yes, but you did! Change it or make it relevant" and I would be like "ugh." It's about this really creepy place me and my kid would go sometimes to show each other our BRAVERY.
Lazarus Act
The motionless air sits quiet on
the hollow ground.
On Saturdays the hunters
arrive, to listen for their chosen
deer, hoping to mark
the red hides with metal pellets,
hoping to drag the heavy bodies home
over the inclined paths.
No noise here, when walking past
the safety zone be sure to wear bright amber
lest the branches under human feet
be mistaken as movement
marked for slaughter.
The still pools, the chill waters
enshroud the bodies of missing
children. In Spring, the slender fingers
of twigs brush against the surface
and ask these shadows to rise again
and play. Sometimes at night the children
will answer, calling for their mothers
begging the trees to lift them back out
but always the boughs bend fragile---
they drown again, the water unbroken.
The slow moving spring puddles
from one lake to the
next. It drags the glutted bodies
of bottom hugging fish, who
lurk, to rise for flies.
The white birches in the forest all died
last winter. they hang thin widow-makers
over the narrow trails and wait
to drop. Not even a creak of warning.
The absent creatures speak
in the silence, murmuring of
their weary wandering days
of pacing through the woods
and searching to bring home
their missing fathers, mothers
daughters, sons.
I am fond of this poem because no one could fix it other than making me move the second to last stanza to where it is. My poetry teacher was like "The white birches in the forest all died last winter" is the perfect penultimate line." LOL it was the creepy place.
So I think my demand may be send me 5 poems and no you can't be jerks give them five minutes and a subject of my choosing they can pick out of a hat! OR YOUR order is CANCELLED.
All went well at the VA I suppose. It was fine. Husband is tired LOL.
Anna
Ugh one of my references called, to ask questions. Sheesh. This is like... you want me yesterday? I am coming to her fairwell lunch sine fever finally subsided and all.