<everybody can write
poetry>
even
that beggar in stinking rags
can compose rhymes
about spring
mysteries of life god rain
the
meaning of money
even
that teenager (illiterate)
who sells favours in
dark alleys
can write a poem about true love
and his/her personal prince charming
everybody
can write poetry
but if it’s about somebody you
know
so intimately
as to identify in a morgue
after a drowning or aeroplane crash
somebody you
sleep with every night
and whose tastes are now
your own
if it’s about somebody whose dirty socks
you lift from the carpet
the one you chose together
so long ago
you’ve stopped counting the years
if
your poem is about that
then
it should be called art |
<the days before you
came>
the
morning started early
with an empty bed, uncrumpled
and bathroom all to myself
and phone calls from
men
and fruit for breakfast
then - lazy hours
in boutiques
thick plastic shopping bags
filled
with fuck-me high heels
and navel-line dresses
i skipped lunch
to read topless on the beach
with friends and strangers
and in the evening
we all danced to the smell
of strawberry margaritas
and played strip poker
we all won
oh
yes those must have been
the days before you came |
