R~ Sad

SAD.

'Hello, is that you? This is me. Or rather us.
We are on a number thirteen bus.
I've got a bunch of poems with me;
we're on a shopping expedition.

We started out at Selfridges,
where three of them bought hats and gloves.
Don't ask me how they're going to put them on;
we are doing shopping therapy for fun.

Three poems plumped for huge green paper clips
they found somewhere in W.H. Smith's.
And one has gone for spangled tops,
and two more fell for scarlet knickers,
in the window of John Lewis.'

By now I'm having second thoughts
about the wisdom of this trip.
I'm the only one with money.

I'll tell you how this came about.

My friend, Philip, often says my poetry is sad.
And Isabel, who's from Brazil, has said it's true.

I thought about my poems and, dissatisfied,
I shook them from their folders to the floor.
They lay there blinking in the sunlight,
all laid out on snow white sheets,
more like little accident survivors
than poems waiting to be read.

"It can't be right," I said, "to hide my verse.
So let's go out and have some fun.
We'll catch a bus to Oxford street
and window shop with all the trippers.

So here we are, all fancy free.
I let them choose exactly as they please.
We've had a few surprises.
But most of them don't look too bad,
and certainly they don't look sad.
I must admit it's going better than expected."

But not for long; for some time later:

'hi. This is me again. Is that still you?
You won't believe me, but it's true;
we've had a dreadful accident.

I bought them each an ice cream cone,
but none had any appetite,
nor any way to lick or bite,
so naturally the ice cream melted,
and soon they were an inky mess.
all over my Missoni sweater.'

My poems were a sorry sight;
the children of my brain all dead;
but Oxford street was not a place to grieve,
and so I buried them inside a skip,
and took a taxi home to bed.

Later on, while in the bath,
I realised my big mistake
was dressing poems up
in fancy clothes that didn't fit.

Eventually the truth will out;
If verse looks sad, it's just too bad.
You can' t fix up what isn't bust.

No more than I can hide what hurts,
behind a painted smile of clever verse.