davidgoulding84@interpoems.com
perhaps out of touch
probably out of time
must be out of luck
possibly out of the frying pan
could be in the mire
maybe in love
reckon I’m in debt
likely to be in-fighting
rock or hard place?
catch 22?
will be up the junction
which cannot be up the creek
but might as well be
chances are my ruse will fail
odds on you’ll catch me out
looks like I’m unmasked
put your shirt on an exposure.
or is it so certain?
it’s quite conceivable I think
that give or take a risk or two
to attain or judge the true potential
we will realize at last
that it’s all just
A FEASABILITY STUDY
MINEFIELD
The Ordnance Survey, plastic coated
and so neatly folded,
hanging free,
ready to give you quick and detailed knowledge of
exactly where you are,
where you’ve been,
and where you’re going,
to any thick-socked booted sexless clumper,
is not for me.
My map is wrinkled and alive
wayward and stretched
across the car bonnet
giving equivocal hints and vague pointings
to where I want to go.
It’s hit and miss – near human,
lost, just like me.
Across the way a stagnant pylon,
a doubtful footpath
and an indeterminate copse
suggest the wood I’m aiming at
cannot be far away.
The shape is right, the situation wrong
and you’re no expert in the field
here, lost, with me.
Check, check again and take a chance;
walk the path and make
to stride the field.
Though wild and weedy it’s
furrowed like my brow
with waves of ridges to the knee.
So it’s stumble, mutter, trip and curse,
and because you’re not so smooth yourself
it’s great to have you
lost and happy,
here, with me.