a man of letters
who pens
upon
trivial matters in convivial inns
where his life is spent
almost invariably
in tatters       ..

aren’t as many second hand
bookshops on the charing cross road as
there were when I was younger
of course, so were they   ..

dressed to ****
and well yes there was
blood on her
skirt but I know
that’s not what
you meant

this is where I live
I’d ask you in
but it’s a mess

some days my legs work better
than others look at me oddly
as I clutch onto the railings, the wall
and you, you most of all  ..

threw it aside
thinking of course
a poem is never

as good as
it might have been,
though    ..

frightfully british but
also roman catholic
ate no meat on a friday
was always fish and chips

got a couple of tickets for
the theatre if you’d
like to go? yes I would, actually.
goodbye

“I’ve had enough,” you
said, pushing away your plate,
but looking at me     ..

old bloke in the pub says
buy me a pint and I’ll be grateful
for ever mate, neither of us
have got that long       ..

hid a poem in a tree in
the woods
but they cut it down
to just a couple of words

old bloke in the pub says
he’s drunk on the unfulfilled hopes
of his youth
but in truth it’s the scotch

you were crying and shaking as you tried
to explain you’d spent the night
with somebody else
well, as long as he makes you happy    ..

if you haven’t read any of the
british library crime classics, then
what is there left to talk about, muttered
the old bloke down the pub

went into the second hand bookshop
I said hi, what’s new?

apparently relationships
have to be worked at, we laughed    ..

light is the lilt
of a flute
at dusk
in a quiet square

can’t see a way out at all
     wherever one looks there’s just wall
    and yes, one solitary gate
      whereby they gather to await
    the old fool

let’s do lunch tomorrow
not sure if I can make it
I’m not asking you to cook

leaves him alone
in the wood
are all he has    ..

don’t get me wrong
I like trains;
it’s just getting on

someone stops the road sweeper
and asks him the way;
he says, like this     ..

just recently discovered
   christina rossetti on a second
hand book stall
  down the market there were
others shouting their wares so much louder,
   but who cares

p g wodehouse and
john betjeman made
life seem worth living
just to read them    ..

old bloke in the café reads his
newspaper religiously
over breakfast every morning and
thanks God for letting him be
for now

the pub at lunchtime
is quiet, he says,
I’m eating

o’hara should have
been a little more careful
on the road
perhaps wasn’t his thing

what’s with this whole twenty
first century internet
thing about having followers,
I mean I feel like a stalker

love museums full of stone age
artefacts, the odd roman sandal or two
and victorian pottery, and all
those insects skewered beneath glass cases
not solved by pulling faces
at what our ancestors got up to

stevie smith was the
greatest poet of her
age, but what’s her
age got to do with it

he said I don’t know why
I ever went out with you ..
she said but you didn’t go out
with me, we just happened
to leave at the same time  ..

we’re both getting old,
but she still has dignity and desirability
and a demure sensuality and
all I have is a cough

people find me cold,
which is also
how they leave me

the angry knocking
and the insistence
I open the door

couldn’t help wondering
what was behind it

feel unsteady, seems windier than
it used to be -
don’t know if it’s a climate change thing,
or just me

how long
has it
been
up to much
lately?

ok so I’m alcohol dependent
you got a problem with that ?

suppose if I ever came
up with a really
memorable poem I wouldn’t
have to write it down

looking back
on our old haunts
me still    ..

sitting in a pub writing
a poem but it
wasn’t very good and the
beer was awful

use a stick since my stroke
approximately four years
ago it was when I last ran for a
bus, but I don’t miss it

used to think I’d like
to get to know you,
but I don’t, anymore

I’d willingly take you
into my confidence
if I had any

writing a poem on the bus
and the elderly woman sitting next to me
says oh, is it about us

rather write detective fiction
than poetry but I wouldn’t
be any good at it, and what’s
the difference? she says

she says these poems are
****, but what if she’s right   ..

your heart is just a pump, love
and if I broke that
you’d be dead, but you’re not      ..

ate our sandwiches sitting
on the steps leading up to
the art gallery
it’s a matter of taste, she says

where were you last night?
I can’t recall
and you expect me to believe that?
not at all  ..

writing a novel
you know what that’s like?
it’s like a story that no one’s
ever written before
yeah, I’m making it up  ..