How wonderful,
I think,
To be a poet.
To move from town
To different town,
Each night to be ignored
Over indifferent tapas
In the bar of some
Chain arthouse cinema.

Each time to stand,
Nervous
Before a small crowd.
And affect your
Poet’s voice –
Its buxom vowels and
Spittle-shredded consonants.
While baristas wonder when
To turn back on the jazz.

Then back,
If you’re lucky,
To a house,
A room you call home.
To write and write,
To dash your head
On inspiration’s pebbled shore.
While neighbours live
Their “happy” nine to fives.