They listen as if poetry’s worthy
Of their respect, as if it matters
As much as gymnastics, music,
football and friends.
Is writing a poem like writing a song?
Could you write about your dreams?
What makes you want to write?
Are your poems about your own life?
The questions start slowly,
then gather momentum; fledglings
hovering at the edge of the nest,
keen to take flight but unsure
if they’re ready yet.
My dreams are too weird to write.
That’s ok I reply, our poems
don’t have to make sense,
they can be strange as our dreams.
The way life is strange, says the boy,
who says little else, as he sits
in the front row, humming to himself.