deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Hen
I want to write.
I want to write to you, my pretty lady
and you to write back.
Let me know what to do.
Why did you leave?
We just weren't ready.
Who told you you could?
Who told you to wither and starve and lock like a dead weight?
Who told you you could?
Today I cried,
today and yesterday and days before that.
The human race has gone a squiff, my pretty lady.
It's left me like an antique and I don't
think I like modern art.
What I'd give for one of your cups of tea
at the breakfast bar
after work.
What I'd give for your smile.
It's nearly eleven. Today's head space needs to end, little lady.
I can't cope.
The kettle's boiled,
I'll make two cups
but one will be poured,
cold,
down the drain.
I want to write to you, my pretty lady
and you to write back.
Let me know what to do.
Why did you leave?
We just weren't ready.
Who told you you could?
Who told you to wither and starve and lock like a dead weight?
Who told you you could?
Today I cried,
today and yesterday and days before that.
The human race has gone a squiff, my pretty lady.
It's left me like an antique and I don't
think I like modern art.
What I'd give for one of your cups of tea
at the breakfast bar
after work.
What I'd give for your smile.
It's nearly eleven. Today's head space needs to end, little lady.
I can't cope.
The kettle's boiled,
I'll make two cups
but one will be poured,
cold,
down the drain.
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