How little we know

How little we know

Or care

When all but

The best of us struggle

With the day-to-day.

There is

Barely time enough to breathe

Deeply

The words of forgotten poets

Dramatists and playwrights

Float by unrecognised

No matter how passionately

They plead,

Their winged flight

Brings

Nary a ripple

To furrowed brows

Rarely relaxed.

We are a collection

Of personalised vignettes.

Clever phrases

Often used

By thief and judge alike

Can lose their attribution

In the clamour for modernity.

Morality tales

Are brutal life lessons

Short stories

Are one-act plays

Kitchen-sink dramas,

With very little to recommend

A re-run.

Literary critics are such a bore

Intellectual rigour

Is rarely followed

By the rattle of coppers

The clink of gold coins.

The satisfaction of the poet

Lies in the tenor of the first line,

The next poem.

Nobody likes a know-all

Punch-drunk

Ne’re-do-well

High on self-delusion.

Intellectual snobbery

Is not confined

To the chattering classes

Its inversion festers

In public bars

Across the country

Where the foppish vagabond

In the corner

Hunched over an arcane phrase

Is best left ignored

Until last orders

When he is pitched onto the street

With the bin bags

To find another place

To rest his bones.

Whether he likes it or not.