I thought they
might have nicked my
little WH Smith
black book
when I visited the loo
I left it there
on the table
tempting wrong 'uns
along with my half drunk pint
and bag of peanuts
maybe poetry is not
the making of a criminal career
I would have missed the words
not remembered them
I would have missed the
intense fire
from which they came
and worried that the
words would not
visit me again
