Tranquillity of Sunday gathers in Fitzgerald's park
The roses grows on trees, the ducks sail cotton clouds
The warm sun dries doubt sodden paths
Across the passive sky drifts happily perhaps
Ah, I wish I wouldn't have to be home by five...
'Poetry is not real'
I must agree
for she would come
like many before
would go on
refresh, shock, mollify
and as we all know
poetry is fantastic in bed...