EPITAPH FOR LOST LOVES

Poets are impractical people
I came home tonight
And the last light bulb in the kitchen had blown.
I took one from the bathroom
And burnt my hand.
Only ten minutes ago
It was me Bob and another poet
Cruising home In a battered Volvo
From a Café Frug in Penzance
Full of beer and words And poetic licence
I played the guitar and sang cynical songs of love
And people laughed especially women,
And I thought of the smell of you.
Sometimes like Daffodils,
Sometimes Roses Perhaps even Lilacs
That’s how it is.
And when I die without you
(To the strains of “Eleanor Rigby”
I know that you will smell Like wild garlic in the spring
And all of these words
Will mean nothing

No Don’t feel bad
That’s just the way It is.

Poets are impractical people
And soon my Poetic licence
Will be withdrawn