How she must need a poet

How she must need a poet

How she must need a poet sometimes
When philosophy is sleeping with sense,
Sense sleeping with scientists,
How she must need a poet sometimes, to lean
On the wooden frame of the door, and say,
"Yeah…whatever! You know I love you!"
She, chopping onions, an imperceptible smile on her lips.
How she must need a poet sometimes, to arrive
At the porch wearing a ridiculous hat,
Singing the chorus of the latest nightingale tune,
Well written for a lark in the dawn. How she must need
Such a poet, once in a blue moon,
To materialise in the corridor,
Fall on one knee, and implore one moment of loveliness,
Before expiring in reams all dreaming of her.
How she must need a poet
To lean on the wooden frame of the door
And say, "Yeah…whatever! I know you love me!"