It’s no good.
I just can’t write
about flowers.
In the park
my wife says to me
“look at those beautiful bluebells,
you should write
a poem about them.”
I tell her
that it’s just no good —
however hard I try
that Wordsworth shit
refuses to capture my soul;
I need to write
about dirt and grime
and loneliness and real people
and the grit of their lives.
It was then
that I looked into her eyes
and saw the tiny bluebells of her pupils
surrounded by
moats of brown.
“Let’s go home”,
I upped and said.
“I just can’t write
about flowers.”
