Written: November 07, 2025, for contest sponsored by Graig Cornish
“What’s it all about, Alfie?”— Are they hedonistic choices—and the katabatic void they leave? This cup’s clutter, this timetable of supplejack sighs. If the moon forgets—will it ever call us back? Are we meant to have beyond what we bestow? Or are we required to be seraphim? We chase glitter, blind to its lamplight and oil. Alfie, if a fool shows no interest, Is revenge the clever answer? And if life belongs only to the strong— What’s your wager on the sphinx’s ancient rule? Our aspirations fold like creased napkins— still clean enough for an evasive guest. Love? A leftover coat on the wrong hook, a name spoken softly, reshaped when no one listens. Hope? A medium-rare object— warm in the middle, a blush of pink. Never raw, though. And relevance? The hum between two clashing chords— your laughter mocking silence. “What’s it all about, Alfie?” then… Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. Or simply this: You hesitate—and maybe that’s the answer.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.