It’s no manly thing,
this poetry lark:
banging in silly syllables
in the cluttered workshop of a darkened mind.
It’s not a womanly thing either,
coddling newborn words,
swaddling them in warm towelled poems,
homed in the page’s scrubbed whiteness;
and it’s not a childlike thing,
with little chance of a hope of sense,
flung tantrummed on the nursery floor.
It’s just me
making shadows black enough
for the illusion of sunlight.