As regular readers know, in November I set out to write fourteen 14-line poems. With November just over the horizon, I’ve been feeling the need to get in shape. So when, as I was heading for a seat at the back of a bus today, another passenger’s unexpected gesture handed me a chance to limber up a little. Here’s the result for your consideration:
To the man who gave me the finger on the 423
Is it my whiteness that offends you?
Class, entitlement, grey hair?
Not my t-shirt, glasses, sandshoe!
Why this cold, unyielding glare?
Do I remind you of some vicious
thief who stole your cold, delicious
breakfast plums? Or is it just
that one day we will both be dust?
Oh, was your gesture then fraternal:
This central thing is true, I’m sorry,
sit on this, memento mori.
Life is good but not eternal.
My blank gaze and hairless head
remind you: don’t forget the dead.
Me fail? I fly! 