Canto XLIV

Some days are not deserving of a poem,
some days you’ll find you’ve got fuck all to seize,
and sure there were a fair few things worth doing—

from piles of dishes, thick with bacon grease,
to paperwork, the bills and distant friends
whose hellos you are yet to send replies.

The autumn day is drawing to an end
and I have made no mark upon its page,
no acts of heroics to be penned

and if I’ve caught the spirit of the age
then it’s the endless trawl through TV channels
and pressing refresh on the same Web page.

And as I write this turgid load of flannel
I look across to see your belly showing
and know that while we navigate the banal—

old lustre gone, too world weary and knowing—
amother mind its forming within you,
a clutch of neurons, sparking to life, growing,

and through that mind we’ll see this world anew.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 21, 2012 @ 00:26:17

    “old lustre gone, too world weary and knowing”— I like this line.

    Reply

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