The background poets in the English Market

It would be easy to miss the poets

in the Farmgate Cafe

encased behind glass

as you sip espressoed coffee

on a Saturday afternoon

in the English Market.

Poems slip by without fuss,

prefer to let you pass

until you’re ready to listen

to your breathing heart

– the minute they sense you ache

for a set of fingernails

with which to grip on to fragile life

ticking like a fading metronome.

Poems are used to coffee drinkers

who turn their backs on them.

Poems become taken forgranted

even when handwritten and hung.

Poets never have the last laugh.

Ink fades gradually away.

I wonder whether the spirits stay

hidden among fushia encased in a water jug.
____________________

This was composed in the English Market Farmgate Cafe in Cork Ireland in May 2015

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