Nobody in this poem says where we are going, and that is the whole trick. Mary F. C. Pratt writes an invitation that is really a set of instructions, the sort handed out before a school trip, and lets the instructions tell the story. The destination stays blank. What fills it is a run of oddly specific rules that conjure a world: bears to feed, mimes who shouldn't be tipped, a chimney sweep who seems to handle the transport, and no phone service. The title, "PROMPT #11: INVITATION," suggests the poem answered a writing prompt, though that is an inference from the title alone. Either way, it takes the idea of an invitation literally and makes it a real appointment, with a time, a corner and a dress code.
The comedy comes from tone. The speaker is calm and officious, like a tour operator, while the details drift into fairy tale. "Ten percent should be plenty" sounds like a sensible note about gratuities until you remember who is being tipped. The mix of porta-potties and bears, practical and marvelous, makes the strange journey feel believable. The sound helps. The *p* sounds keep recurring: "pocketful," "pocket watch," "provided," "percent," "plenty," "porta-potties," "promptly." The speaker's fussy politeness ("Please remember") is laced with them, and the repetition gives the instructions a brisk, bustling feel.
The most interesting choices are in what to bring and what to leave behind. A thesaurus, a pocketful of small stones and a plain sandwich are welcome. A water bottle, matches and cupcakes are not, and those are the things a cautious traveler packs for safety or comfort. The stones may remind us of pebbles dropped to mark a path in old stories, though the poem never says what they are for. The watch rule is sly: a wristwatch is banned, but a pocket watch is "okay." Time is allowed only in an old-fashioned form, and the day still runs from dawn to midnight, a full circuit of light and dark. "Dress warmly, even if it isn't cold" is also worth a second look. Judging by the rest of the poem, the cold it prepares us for may not be the kind a thermometer measures.
The sharpest rule is the notebook. If you bring one, it "will be / confiscated and not returned." In a poem that likely began as a writing prompt, this is a delicious contradiction. Yet it makes sense. The thesaurus is allowed, a book of words you can carry in your head, but the place to write them down is forbidden. The day is to be lived, not recorded, and whatever survives will have to survive in memory. The poem itself then becomes the only record, which is a quiet joke at its own expense.
The form suits this playful authority. There is no rhyme and no regular meter, only free verse that moves like spoken directions. Commands open line after line: "Dress," "Wear," "Bring," "Do not," "Expect." The line breaks add suspense. "Bring" dangles at the end of its line, so the items arrive one at a time, each a small surprise. In "Please remember not / to bring a notebook," the word "not" hangs at the line's edge, and for a moment the sentence says the opposite of what it means.
Then the ending changes the mood. The poem circles back to the starting point: "We will return to the corner / promptly at midnight." The last sentence drops the official voice: "There should be / someone you trust waiting." The word "should" is hedged, not promised. The speaker can't guarantee who will be there, so that part is left to you. The poem suggests that a day of this kind of wandering, whether through imagination or experience, may leave you needing someone to come home to.
That is what makes the poem worth reading. Its jokes about mayonnaise and mimes are real jokes, but they lead to something earnest: an adventure needs a safe return. The invitation is playful on the surface and, underneath, serious about trust.