Ian

 

Ian

the compound eye of a morning fly

warming to the sunny words that

whatever we see you see differently 

and we pause in amazement of

of course 

    of course

it is isn’t it 

Ian

said it looks like a metaphor

for a simile of a malapropism in

an aphoristic dream from an eccentric 

foundling of indeterminate age 

that is

Ian 

a poet of extraordinary wonder

writing of an age in retreat

from the banality of daily chores

the terseness of the smartphone text

arid desserts of brief encounters

in a social media expanded to contraction

Ian

your abstraction holds the loadstone

of what it is to be human at an absurd

time in history you hold it for study

this is amazement - look at it

take a good look and laugh

at what he has hurled into the air

and damned if it came down face up

everytime

Ian

your morning stroll shoes belong in a museum 

of soles inscribed with morning tweets

that will forever walk and never stand still

or gather the dust of tomorrow 

for today we laugh like drainpipes

at your daily pipe dreams 

for you are the one

and only

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