Tricoteuse flock, jostle, fidget, bustle,
All picky pecking at potted meat squares;
Nibbling away at pre-cut fancies,
Hoarding soft crumb with non to spare.
Knitting their souls, later, to be hustled
Down in the market place with tuppenny wares.
In-drawn breath, sucks sound into silence,
All eyes down, it’s about to start.
In steps a Poet, quaking in his hesitance
Now is the moment to live his art.
Volunteers his veins for his truth, in innocence,
Word-paint love, anguish, rend his heart.
A Public Blood letting; umbrella sales, up again,
Vendeuse chinking copper, crowd puller in the rain.
08.08.10 edit
2004
