April 8, 2005
Another poem
For the April Guardian Poetry Workshop.
Henry Pulling’s Dahlias
I’d left my dahlias, unwatered, to die.
Called away on a whim by a not-maiden Aunt.
Rare spontaneity for a banking man such as I.
She had to keep running, though I wasn’t sure why.
Brighton, Paris, Madrid, then Istanbul we went.
I’d left my dahlias, unwatered, to die.
My Aunt was a smuggler but I didn’t pry.
I left her to her vices though I thought that I shant.
Rare spontaneity for a banking man such as I.
On the Orient Express, something stuck in my eye.
Living on pot and chocolate felt too delinquent.
I’d left my dahlias, unwatered, to die
But the man I’d been before her, I was forced to decry.
I followed her to Paraguay, as was her want.
Rare spontaneity for a banking man such as I.
Too much of my life spent bored, awkward and shy.
Now I’m embroiled in torridness but I dare not recant.
I’d left my dahlias, unwatered, to die.
Rare spontaneity for a banking man such as I.
