You haven’t got your head up your arse
Or in the clouds any more, he said,
But firmly secured where it should be.
Atop my shoulders? I suggested.
But my big brother was right.
I was a dreamy kid but when the hormones kicked in— boy!!
My head was every which way but loose.
It was like a beach ball bobbing along
On choppy waves,
A dog chasing after every rabbit which crossed
I’m still a bit like that but the hormones
Are quieter now
& if I don’t watch it I still find myself
Head up the arse or in the clouds,
A head’s gotta go somewhere.
I was worried about whether the passageway would take too long to dry as visitors were coming later so the cleaner suggested opening the back door to let the breeze in.
– Good idea, I said, as I went back into my study and left him to it.
It was then I could hear him struggling, groaning.
– What’s wrong? I said.
– Darn door won’t open.
I went to have a look. He was putting his whole weight into it — and he’s a big man — and still not getting a result.
– Here, I said, demonstrating. There’s a trick to it. You pull the handle up not push it down.
– Well, I never, he said. I didn’t know they still made doors like this. It should be in a door museum.
– It’s an IQ test, I smiled. I wouldn’t worry though. It took me two days to work it out and I live here.
We both chuckled. You’ve got to give people a way out.
Not a flock of seagulls
Nor a murder of crows
But a petulance of poets
Gathered in the conference room
Of the public library
Each champing at the bit
For their turn to read
Not really listening
But when their turn comes,
Oh the words, the words,
Such melody, such sweetness, such wit.
Was ever anything ….
Barely noticing that many who had already read
Had gone home or hit the bar
down the street.
They rattle on regardless.
Where’s the stage manager when you need him?
* ‘They never listened to one another; they were preoccupied with waiting for their turn’ [Jean Stafford: ‘An Influx of Poets’]