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Thursday, 8 April 2021



After Gary Larson 

Yesterday I found my purpose.

It was down the back of the sofa. 

Not as big as I’d remembered,

it was covered in some kind of fluff.

I found it alongside a couple of pencils

and a foreign coin. 

I brushed it off, and held my purpose

in the palm of my hand. 

Wasn’t much to write home about.

I put it on the mantelpiece 

with my old Ian Fleming novels

and my third-place prize from that

poetry competition in 1998.

Now I sit staring at my purpose,

the one I’d never given

much thought to. 

Might put it in the attic for a while;

the cat is bound to knock it

off the shelf.