there’s a fella
makes his home inside the small words
of reaching and touching and dance
on the footpaths and sidewalks
of sunshine and rain
tells stories to himself
and anyone can spare a second
if they want to
if they really want to
pretty words pretty words
like christmas wrapping
or flowers left on a doorstep
he wants to reach out or to come inside your place
with his handful of pretty words
but who’s going to listen can you tell me?
who’s got the time
for touching and dancing and for reaching out?
nobody I know
no-one who knows what they’re doing
what right does a joe with a pencil in his hand have
to grasp at a sky that flashes
with the twinkling of the masters
scattered across the spread of spoken words
in stanzas of movement and light?
he’s only a tryer coming up cheap and fast
passing from our sight like a shooting star
to burn without leaving a smoke trail
or a mark on the ether or the sky
to point out the way he went
he’s just like the rest of them
so who gives a damn huh?
joe pretty-words is writing again
wonder what it is this time
anybody want to listen when he’s done?
Copyright May 2000 ©
Published in e-zine (UK) ~(the poetry) Worm 6 – gone now.