Poetry

This should be a labour of love
Collating my words from the frankly absurds
To the shining like heavens above.
 
This should be a joy and a pleasure.
Recalling old lovers from under their covers
Post coital reflection at leisure.
 
Those poems belong in a book.
The lingering thoughts of the tens and the noughts
So others can finger and look.
 
My lovers are fewer than most.
And though they inspired, they’re better retired,
For what is a book but a boast?