Every poem should have a welcome mat.
to let the reader know their little house of words
is warm and inviting; is well kept,
a door bell that chimes rich and melodious,
perhaps a garden gnome suggesting fun, quirkiness
and a bird bath out the front, full to the brim,
where yellow-shouldered honey eaters frolic,
to suggest plenty
Maybe it was me
maybe it was her
it was some time ago
a bit of a blur
We both grabbed it greedily
we held it for a while
life lowered its fangs
put on a smile
But she had her demons
I had my ways
we were on different pages
in different plays
Maybe it was me
maybe it was her
it was some time ago
al a bit of a blur
I could go for a walk but I can’t be buggered.
I could check my Facebook status but I can’t be buggered.
I could cut back the bush near the letter box so the postie can chuff past more easily on his motor scooter.
But I can’t be buggered.
I could put more effort in getting my next manuscript together — the editor is interested — but I can’t be buggered doing that either.
I almost can’t be buggered writing this poem about not being buggered.
Would rather curl up in the sun out the back with a good crime novel and lose myself in the plot.
John Malone 