Scrunch.
I left it up,
the broken poem.
A broken poem
is not like
a broken promise.
It hurts no one.
Only the writer.
It lets them know
they too
can mess up in public.
Can die
like a stand-up comedian
on stage
eat humble pie.
I’ve tried mending it
but it is beyond repair.
A poet’s folly.
What can I do?
But leave it there.
Perhaps no one will notice.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
The ibises have moved along
have gone upmarket
grubbing in the well manicured lawns
of Davis Court.
Something needs to be done.
They look more dowdy than ever.
Reminds me of the time
in the Adelaide Central Market
during an upgrade
when the benches inside Coles supermarket
where I used to wait for my paraplegic friend
to do his shopping
were all suddenly removed;
What the &^%$$%, we all said,
our little community of bench people.
When approached,
management see – sawed for a while
but after constant badgering
a junior manager not yet used to the ropes
of sidestepping,
admitted — wait for it —
the benches were removed to keep
the riff-raff out
Thin
You’ve always been jealous of thin guys, admit it, so this puny poem is a dig at ultra thinness; the humour hides the venom:
Watching this dude
P
A
P
E
R
T
H
I
N
Amble in,
You wonder
How he fits
His insides
In.
John Malone 
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