‘Is there a poet in the house?’ the man said.
Then—louder—‘Is there a poet in the house?’
At first, not a sound. People looked round.
A rustle as somebody rose to their feet
followed by five more—and another eight.
‘I am The Poet!’ they cried from the abyss.
I kept my counsel. The poem in my pocket
would have something to say about this.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Helena Nelson
would be pleased to hear them.