Poetry

This week before the New Year

I listen to typewriter keys

The aircon hums a pathetic whirr

In this room where friends  come in threes.

I kill time with furtiveness

Pretending to be busy with my scribbles

My ink-stained notebook is a candidate

Witness to lunchtime, snacktime, dinnertime doodles.

This week before the New Year which happens

To be Annus Rabbitus (pardon the imaginary Latin)

I imagine that I am,  a writer, or a Poet

Filling my page with tasteless snippets.

I’ve never  liked, or aspired  to be, Shakespeare

I read Romeo and Juliet for the sex scenes

Though poetry is my juvenile pacifier

I love the way it hugs me,  like a well-worn sweater.

 

2010

 

 

 

 

 

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