When I was adolescent, I wrote sonnets,
Shakespearean, the rhymes tucked into place,
Enjambements, the lot, each one ten minutes.
It only takes me five now, but the pace
Of life has quickened, which explains the speed
- Unless I've just become more superficial,
And agonising's vanished with the need
To give tradition's stiffening to the wishful
Thinking about the schoolgirls on the bus
I wanted to impress with words, words, words.
They liked the poems. Was it worth the fuss?
Learning to be a Bard to pull the birds?
Holding, not pulling, is the poet's curse
I know now, and write sarcasm in free verse.

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