Be the writer of the story,
Inhabit those narrowing eyes
Looking intently in the window
To meet the stare of the poet
Peering out from his pane
Looking at, who knows what,
Maybe at the dog barking a solo
Or a boy, around ten, on his bicycle.
Forty percent off it says..
As if, here it was, somehow
Standing on the precipice
Of a new dawn where this,
Too good to be true offer
Was actually sacrificing itself
On the altar known as
“Ends this holiday weekend”
Only for it to be resurrected
Usually a few days later.
If Jesus had been a salesman
This would have been his pitch.
But he was a carpenter
Who perhaps made coffins
Just like in this brochure.
It almost seems churlish
Not to die just to take advantage
Of the forty percent off.
I wonder if they do that one
In cherry red.
I do wonder, whenever I wander,
what Jesus would have made
of the state of the wood that he
was at that moment being nailed to.
Appraising the workmanship,
as it were, of the worn timber,
the care that may or may not
have been taken in the hammering of
those nails, good and true, just
like his father had once taught him.
What we think, what we say,
Often times, by some cliché,
Destroys the meaning, lost in space
Of words not uttered face to face.
What we say, what we do,
Is never old and never new.
But doing so whilst far apart
May grieve a soul, break a heart.
Writing a poem on the back of a postage stamp wasn’t difficult I think,
It was the sending of it,
For now I have a head full of words and a tongue full of ink.