I opened the laptop,

I opened the laptop,

It was early

Wine stained eyes adjusting

To the view from behind

Horn rims, newly cleaned

Head propped up on a pillow

Semi-nude below the covers

Clean sheets

It was a pleasure to lie there

A woman popped into the room

Uninvited

I barely had time to screen her out

When she was asking if I had ever

Read poetry to an audience of critics

Created flash fiction

Participated in a panel

To discuss post-punk prose

I thought every audience was a critic

Nothing would convince me

Slam dunks were a good thing

When the idea of a good line

Was to use a shoehorn

To force a rhyme

Even if it would never fit

The meaning that went before it

I could have asked her to leave

But she was perched on my chest

I guess I will have to rethink

The ergonomics

Of poetry

Perhaps I could wear a blindfold

Spend most of my time unseen

Fly under the radar

It might be better

Not to consider myself a poet

When so many who do

Perhaps aren’t

Too many people think what they write

Carries weight

When the truth is often

Something quite different

She said with an attitude like that

I would make a good critic

I looked under the bed for a bat

I always was more of a bowler

Asked her to leave

Whilst I got dressed

This was a bedroom

Not a confessional

Sometimes

Even in the digital age

A little privacy

Before breakfast

Is a godsend