If I was clever enough I would write a poem about poetry
and watch snowflakes cover footprints of half bent jobseekers
blowing their unemployed breaths into the Coventry moon.
If I was clever enough I would add important letters after my name
and ask a surgeon from Damascus “Why are you cleaning in ASDA”?
He tells me he is blessed and I see his face in my wiped away footprints.
If I was arsed enough I could sip a Wheatgrass latte in Kensington and
launch a collection of poetry on why I love Wheatgrass latte so much
called Why I Love Winter and Wheatgrass Latte (so much).
If I was loaded I’d post Princess Charlotte a rattle made of blood diamonds
and invite her Granny to my book launch at the Koh-I-Noor takeaway,
the surgeon from Damascus could photo bomb the money shot.
If I was British enough I would omit that last stanza and say “Soz and that”
or, “Dreadfully sorry Ladies and Gents I seem to have forgotten my place”,
I am at my place now watching my cat guarding his territory of fuck all.
If I was poetic enough I would write poems for people who never read them,
the man across the road with his arse hanging out in a bay of red roses,
my neighbour staring at her dead husband’s arms waving to her from pegs.
If I was poetic enough I would title this poem something really clever like
“The Ballad of Francesca De Montford’s Washing Line”
but her name aint that posh and she wouldn’t give a fuck about this poem.