At the Red Cross, we get lots of mail.
Mostly it's our own reply paid envelopes with cheques in them, sent in response to a quarterly mailout. In a time of crisis (like now: redcross.org.au) it's all kinds of envelopes from all kinds of people with lots of different stamps for me to harvest and decorate my cubicle with. Sometimes, amidst the cheques and postal orders, we might also get a letter or card from an old digger or Red Cross lady with a "The War" story, or perhaps a tale of how the good ol' Red Cross came through for them when they were in a POW camp. We also get people complaining about how much mail we send them because it must cost us so much money to send all those letters (the complainants usually use our own reply paid envelopes - or call our 1800 number - to do so, which, um, costs us money). Occasionally we even get white-hot rage and four-lettered, multicoloured profanity in response to such a mailout (that's for another adults-only post).
Even less frequently, we get poetry. The following - well, I guess you could call it a poem as I'm not sure what else it should be called - came in a card attached to a donation . . .