I carry a gift
they do not want.
I offer it and they scoff.
I write
while they look on
with rolling eyes
faces full of disdain.

A best selling author sells
best in our railway stations
when you waiting for the train
and the heat gives you blasts
of hot air which you want to fight with fists, then water and
sleep. And as you lie on the bunk you open the pages and understand why novels or fiction are best sellers.

The electronic bee
sits on the petals
attempting to pollinate
but simply not
programmed that way.

Only you will recall that thunder
as the swan song came
a trifle late
and buried under books
I, a trifle hesitant, wrote a poem
or letter, I cannot recall.

Amazing
how quickly
I revert
to the old
patterns

how quickly
I sound like
I did a year
ago

I want to be
more
than an empty
persona.

Listening to the pattering
window panes come alive
at night, like rotund ghosts.
Sleep walks in mid-dream,
in mornings the hail storms gather around the flowers
to chat.

I loathe
the childish me
who pushes to get
his way,
who still hesitates
to share his toys,
who grins
when he gets what
he wants.