The Page is Not the Pampas

“I’m not happy with you”, I say to my poems.

They look at me warily.

“What have we done wrong?” they say.

“You’re too well behaved. Too orderly, genteel. Way too English”

“Too English?”, they say.  “From the country that brought you Joe Cocker, the Rolling Stones, the Sex Pistols”

“Okay. Okay. Scrub ‘too English’.”

“So what else are we doing wrong?”

“You mince your way upon the page”

“Mince?”

“Yes. Like dainty school girls. Can’t you, like, stampede upon the page?”

“Stampede? We’re not fucking gauchos! The page is not the pampas.” they say.

“Can’t you buck, twist and beat a bit, Get a rhythm going? Get a bit of dirt on your hands?”

“You’ll have to let us out more,” they say. “You can’t keep us locked in with you at nights”.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“Out,” they say , as they head out the door, ” to paint the the town red.”

‘Paint the town red?’ Does anyone still say that? These poems really do need to get out more.

“Okay, but make sure you’re home by twelve. Drive carefully.”