The Shed In My Head
I once belonged to a garden shed
it had a small window you could look inward into it.
There I sat smoking a funky tobacco and
cleaning my fingernails
with a small gun metal pocket knife.
Occasionally I hum the La Marseillaise
I am an exiled Paddy not a Frenchie
but I do grow garlic and to this day
pine for those large English pickled onion
that the limeys eat with their fish and chips
and the frogs despise.
The shed is small enough
to accommodate several cats
or one overweight flatulent bulldog.
Now I keep no cats, and the dog
is buried in another part of that faraway garden.
I once composed poems in that very shed,
those scribblings are long defunct
and debunked.
It's quite legal to kill poems
when their only purpose
is to litter up a small space in your head
as if you were a cramped, overstaffed shed.
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