Talking to myself
Rain and wind compete in this wild place, Glencoe;
the land of my ancestors is an awesome sight.
My eyes and ears are open, seeking a sign
that will inspire this cold heart of mine
into writing a poem, a song
that will last long after I’m gone.
The best I can do is say, ‘WOW, this is amazing,’
and post a photo on social media for people’s gazing.
Likes abound, and the dopamine lifts me off the ground;
boy, I sure do get around, windswept and interesting-yes that’s me.
Image is everything; don’t want folk to think I’m boring.
If I write a novel, a bestseller, I’ll be remembered forever.
If only this was true; today’s news is tomorrow’s bum roll,
well it was years ago, before I was old.
The Citizen, Times and Record-except on Sunday,
and not because it was a fun day-polish the shoes for Monday,
old newspaper shines them well; unless you wore sand shoes,
because your dad spent his money on booze.
I sometimes forget that even today the poor exist
walking invisible in the midst of designer gear
and not the kind of stuff you wear to school.
Food banks and hand me downs are the fate of the poor.
Glasgow’s miles better if you can afford it.
It’s time to stand up for those who can’t- in’it?
