I was sat in a hotel bar in Plymouth a couple of years ago and this poem wrote itself.
THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY
A Friday night hotel bar
he’s a couple or three drinks ahead of me
his every word is big voiced into his phone
he is deconstructing his heart
I’m the other side of a flimsy partition
trying to camouflage my listening ear
I can’t pull out pen and paper
to record his every heartfelt word
Can I?
The poem wags a finger in my face
Whispers: this one’s not going to happen
Yes, it is true. I did not need to do much in the way of revising, once in a while they just happen.
Here's Anna Terheim with Shoreline.
Until next time.
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