Your flowery words have little effect,
I’m sorry. Yes you
know some mighty big words
sound terribly impressive
and you’ve dressed in your best
middle class
disguise
with lips painted
road walker red.
My eyes trail,
I try to let my ears take over.
But I drift
further away.
Find myself staring
at my boots
and tight black jeans.
Do I
dress as a poet?
Do I
have less to say?
I leave and stroll
in damp air,
light a cigarette,
despite my flu filled head.
I am not
pretending.
Are you
fooling you?
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