Perhaps You Never Got To Write That Poem
You ready yourself to perform that poesy;
a pen is held firmly in your fingers
as you concentrate, while eating pickled onions,
and reach for the notebook that’s by your side.
Yet once you’ve taken that book in your hand,
then pointed the poised pen at the page,
while chewing on that pickled onion,
there’s a distracting sound you’d rather not hear.
A bell at the door, a bong from the clock,
while a first line of verse is rather undone?
You do rather wish to grab that jar of pickles
and throw it at the door. Or at the clock.
(23 Aug 2023)
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