Pointing into the toilet bowl
at 2 and then at 4 a.m.
my geriatric narrow stream,
it dawns on me: whether or not
I drink a little or a lot
it's a dark night of the bladder still.
Now back to bed, with chilled feet
to sleep till dawn? No luck - news
returns to mind: a big anthology
is out, of all Australian verse,
and am I in it? - no, of course,
not that the paper mentions this.
Oh dear. Those lost years when I taught
poetry and writing, I'd say,
my last remaining wish was to get
into a good anthology.
I could have added that I've known
some serious anthologists -
who left me out. This means my verse
was overlookable, and so was I.
None thought: Max needs a place -
mediocre poet, strong ego!
These negatives revolving bleak
in the night keep a chap awake.
Sensing this, the dogs in the hallway
wander in enquiringly and stir:
Time to get up? Better that
than darkly stare at failure.
The dogs want breakfast, then
the garden needs some watering.
Dark night of the ego! - soon
it wears away, and whitens
slowly, if not quite lightens.
My handheld garden hose will pour
a strong stream of mains water
over my garden, nourish
flowers, seen or not, to flourish.
It dawns on me: sing on, sing on,
sing to tone-deaf Aussie-dom
of what is pissed, or pissing - or may bloom.
Max Richards
October 2011 - January 2012
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