Poem — Harry Ricketts



What you find with separation
is everyone else had been
predicting it for ages; they just
hadn’t got around to letting you know.

Michael, for instance, leading such
a fast life in New York that you
receive a postcard a year if you’re
lucky ‑Wish you were here. Toujours gai.’ –

now writes five closely-typed pages
proving conclusively that he’d
realized from the start the two of you
were incompatible, having slept

with you both. Thanks, Mike, you weren’t
so hot yourself. And Zoe, who lives
with her brother, a King Charles spaniel,
two blue persians and three white gerbils,

now says, she read it in the stars
the day Robert Graves died, but didn’t
feel it was her place to interefere.
I mean, che sera, sera, n’est-ce pas?


Harry Ricketts


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