there’s that poet with the suit
the poet wore a suit
every pocket was stuffed full
with paper pencilled words
crumpled both
the weave warm to hand
the smile fortitudinous at
the threadbare words falling
through the fingered holes
collecting in a turn-up’s dustle
patched elbows shining in thought
of that pencil sucked and chewed
even in the loosening of a tie
the shift of a posture moved in
longing through the night’s window
the morning’s sleepiness hesitant to place
just one word
now and again another word
hesitant waistcoat’s pocket watch
the knitted jumper’s snug restrain
eyes wearily raised in a look at me
what good the pocket ‘kerchief
to wrap said tears
to smudge said past life
into sniffed smears
to cuff a sobbed snot
and one long long breath
rearranging suit and tie and
stepping forth they say
there’s that poet
the one in the suit
scruffy bugger
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