When I was nineteen I laughed
At what I heard people call your “Art”.
Art! Like Joyce or Jean Paul Sarte?
No. I had you firmly in a bracket.
Somewhere between Elvis Presley
And Bob Cratchet.
But when I was thirty-eight
And it was a wet Sunday afternoon
And the pubs were shut.
And after dinner I watched TV for desert.
I saw you dance, and wondered:
Had your dross turned to gold;
Or was I merely growing old?
Tags: new writers