He is writing a poem…

(Poetic Fiction)
HE IS WRITING A POEM…

He is writing a poem,
he is writing a poem..
Hush… he is writing a poem…

“And what will it be?”
says you to me:

‘Will I be pretty, will I be rich
Here’s what she said to me’.

‘No – that is plagiarism
drop down on your knee
repeat after me –
I shall not plagiarise’

But I have come to see
how it is done
By partaking of this unfurled song!

‘That’s as it may be
But write your own songs
from memory’

The toothpick fell
from his mouth
And he didn’t like
unwrapping another

So I put the pen back
onto the page
and wrote my poem
internally running
from his rage

I handed it across
the covered table
he took it to his nose
And explored it’s every word
Thirty-six in number

Then he cast it
to the side
upon the table cover

But, (and though
he smiled),
I knew it did not please

I was his pupil and
not the pupil of another

He always wanted it – his way
– no room for compromise
even if poems were better
not following
his rule of thumb.

I looked again
at my work
and it gave an inner glow
That’s it…

Rising – I departed
in my overcoat
to face the cold dark night
never to slope
back into his vicinity again

I heard many years later
He was gone

at the end of a rope.

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