Once upon a time there was a poet
who was forever losing his wallet.
Like the right word or perfect metaphor
he'd swear he’d had it just moments before
but now he stood a round at the bar …
well, he must've left it by the front door.
Or perhaps it was on the train: of course!
He’d left it on the seat when the doors
slammed shut, too late. But to lose the thing
ten times at separate festivals and gigs ...
well, that really was a stroke of bad luck.
Like his strenuous poems and faux
humbleness, things didn't quite add up.
All poetry’s fiction, but some poets cry wolf.