I once read a poem written by a wall
and how the squeezed mortar felt.
And one from a pond telling how
it was when a child drowned in it,
His mother churning my depths
with his name. And verses
by a hyena. I’m not laughing,
a hyena, I trot, I lope, I slaver.
I’d like to write one about being
a tortoise and what it’s like
to have hares gallop past
and the triumph of just beating one
that started three days earlier.
Or perhaps some stanzas
from the Woolwich ferry
as it diesels across grey water
and dreams of gliding into Rio.
I’m not going to though.
I’m a sideboard.