By Ian Copestick
I’ve just been upstairs to get changed
I happened to look in the mirror
As I was washing my hands.
I think I’m finally looking like a poet.
It’s not the bald head with short
Ginger stubble, or the pain filled
Blue bloodshot eyes surrounded
With wrinkles. It’s the mad eyebrows.
It’s like the hair from my head is
Growing down through my eyebrows
There are inch long hairs growing
From just above my eyes. They make
Me look like a cartoon of an absent
Minded professor, or maybe just
A mad old poet, a freaky old guy
Who doesn’t know any better than
To write poetry about his life
That no one wants to read.