Even
all the flowers
sent by all the world’s hungover
and so apologetic men,
accumulated,
wrapped in one big bow,
(not bought at the last garage,
at the last minute)
and ferried, with a tune,
by all the best dressed pipers
of the Lords of the Isles,
won’t quite do. Not today.
I’ll go to the shed, I think,
contemplate the life of mice,
creep to bed
when the light is out.
Keep to my side.
Seth Crook taught philosophy at various universities before moving to the Hebrides. He does not like cod philosophy in poetry. But he does like cod, poetry and philosophy.
This poem has previously appeared in Gutter.