There’s nothing I like better doing
than sitting here in a quiet corner
of the pub
with my Mongolian beanie on
waiting for my mates to rock up
while I have a quiet read.
I know it smacks of vanity
when I pull out my iPhone
and scroll through my posts,
reading what I said, what others said,
how many likes I got.
I like what I wrote and how I say it:
the long, slouching sentences,
the laconic phrases
[Hey! I’m an Ausssie]
the odd syntax here and there
[ like the first line of this post ].
One should be as comfortable in one’s voice
as in the clothes one’s wearing.
I like the merry banter of patrons in the bar too,
the warm embrace of companionship
as I like to gather my poems around me
like boon companions
until my real friends, my flesh and blood friends,