URGENT POEM
(4/10/2004)
I have a bad memory.
Usually I carry pen and paper
In a slim box
Around my neck
(Together with money and suchlike)
In the hope of catching a poem
In my poor and leaking
Reservoir of words;
Suddenly I feel a tug
Like a fish on a line!
I haul the poem in.
I reach for pen and paper.
I’ve forgotten to put on the flat wooden box
Containing the tools of my trade!
The poem is urgent.
I start to panic!
I must dictate what IT dictates.
I look around me,
All I see is a pile of workmen’s sand.
I flatten a section,
Then taking a stick, scribe it with hurried strokes.
The poem is set free.
The verse is short, thank god.
I hurry home to fetch pen and paper.
I scurry back at full speed!
My poem has become immortalised in mortar
And the men are building a wall with my words!
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