The tall poet
I came across the tall poet with a pretty
girlfriend on his arm and loosely the park.
She said nothing.
so that it had to lead to a greeting
I made the first move: a movement of the head.
A loud sign of recognition
a small turn of the hand.
He said nothing.
And then I began.
I bled from a hundred word-wounds I chattered
and nattered and spattered
blathering words all over the tall poet.
I greeted all the family members and sought a grip
in limitless words if it was coincidence that
had brought us together and I digressed.
And his girlfriend
I dragged on.
The park chafed and the street curled up
so as to go like a dying animal and lie under a bush
against which a man pissed
with jubilant horses on his belly.
Splashing and pinchbeck golden.
They moved on.
I – mortified.