.I drive down one of the backroads of desolation, full moon in my eyes, when I see him, shuffling along, hands in pockets.
Hop in, I say..
Are you still whoring with yr other voices? he asks.
Nah, I say. I was trying them on. They didn’t do it for me. You’re the one I want.
It sounds like a song.
Would you like me to sing it?
With your voice? No thanks.
I was sorta lost, I say. You’re my natural voice. Demotic, lyrical at times, a little looney.
You’re my man, my voice says, hopping in, giving me a manly hug.
We drive on, slow, easy, companionable, the full moon in our eyes.
- pic courtesy of pinterest
You don’t see many poems celebrating the sense of smell.
Sight rules the roost, cock-a-doodles its pre-eminence
on every page; the nose rarely gets a look-in.
An anthology of ‘Smell’ poems would be very thin indeed
and would be ‘on the nose’ for most readers.
I haven’t had a whiff of a good smell poem for years.
- I can’t think of a single poem celebrating the sense of smell, can you?
- have you written a short poem, perhaps a funny one, on smells you could put in the comments column for the delight of readers?
- have you a vivid memory of a particular smell?
after deserting me for a few days
my editor has a change of heart
and decides to return.
Yay! I say to myself.
Says he’s been reading my posts, and how I’ve been floundering without him.
You’ve pulled three posts in two days, he says. You’re sinking.
I know, I say, hanging my head in shame.
Look, he says. It’s no good fighting it. We’re a team. Conjoined twins if you like.
Like Laurel and Hardy? I suggest.
Same arrangement? I say.
Yes, he says. You write. I clean up the mess.