Spoilt For Choice

I want to write a poem but I have no way of knowing If it’s coming or it’s going; how it starts or how it ends Should I try to make it funny; sickly sweet or bright and sunny Write of sex and lust or money, or about the latest trends It could be environmental or of something detrimental Something medical or dental; something set in outer space About dying; about living; about taking; about giving About hands upon my body or the sun upon my face Perhaps I’ll write of you and me, or maybe civil liberty A holiday, a prison cell, the sounding of a distant bell Of certain fate - a precondition, or a man with no ambition The tolling of one’s own death knell and of one final truth to tell Theres food, there’s wine, there’s coffee, tea… or how about some levity Perhaps some words to make you smile, a bucket kicked once in a while Or words of much significance, penned with a nervous reticence Or words with which I might beguile; I haven’t done that in a while Yet presidents and queens and kings and life on Earth - and all it brings An old stray dog, a mangy cat, my muse - a tune that’s sounding flat It seems I’ve failed to quell my need to write some lines for you to read But when I read these verses back, I find I’ve done… precisely that!