I pile them up – and up they go
Poems galore like some gathering of confetti
After the wedding of holding hands
Leaves of paper ajar against the wall
For all to see and consider oblong or square?
Set on sideboard – what a place to be
Poems are meant to be
In professional-folder of professional-man
But instead lie-dishevelled in full view
So that they are disregarded as
Shoe-string or serviette, or chair-feet cups or…
Yet an odd visitor may ask
If they can look? – if they can read?
But silent after reading – their response to me
Let’s me know that again
I must suffer for my art