I could have written my defining work already,
which is a terrifying thought
considering my quantifiable lack of achievement.
I could have committed to paper
or rather added to this ether
something so wonderful, that no-one noticed.
I’ve dabbled in Romantic Realistic Reliable
subjects and their flustered tragic bluster
even rhymed when I could muster
But I must have missed my epiphany,
in and out of these tests I set myself,
checked off as I wait patiently, fatigued with literary effort.
Tick, tick, tick, oh and, tick.
Where haven’t I played yet – well then,
Death and deity, drink and digestion. Done.
And now for an brief exclamation from your author:
O! For shame! I insert words
in places they’re not supposed to go.
I suppose into and throughout myself, where tearfully and drastically I comment,
flinging arm across forehead and awaiting the exact moment
to flick a knowing eye someone’s way.
Authorial ammunition then, in the availability
of the written word, to explain the attentive nature,
of the written word.
Book of Pye 