if Poetry is really a gift
I wish the receipt had been left in the box.
So after playing with it briefly and getting bored,
Next day I could easily take it back to the shop.
She said. “Hold me as tenderly as
you hold that poetry book.
Let your ink stained fingers
trace my lines, as you
say my name like you
have a poem on your lips.”
So I set aside my poetry book
and took her gently in my hands.
Then I looked into her eyes and
discovered her poetry,
reading it again and again,
unable to put her down.
On the chalet roof opposite ours
the seagulls strut and march,
patrolling their runway.
Machine gun cackles warn
errant pigeons to land elsewhere.
On a signal known only to them
the seagulls take off, flying high.
Then feathered dive bombers peel off out of the sun,
screaming they swoop
no ice-cream cone is safe.
Observation shows the seagulls have a strict hierarchy.
They know who should have the best perch
who screeches early to wake the tourists
but most important of all,
which of them gets to shit all over our cars.