POEM 272: IF
If I was a spoken word poet,
I’d stand on the podium and read aloud
same old recital I dread to write,
gratulate like a drunk tsetse fly
whilst whistling words:
a punchline for rowdy applause.
If I were a chameleon,
I’d disguise as a harmless wall gecko
crawl the wall of your ears with the echo
of my trembling voice and slap subtle rhythms
here, there, everywhere
If I were a clown I’d wear a wry smile
garnished with forced rhymes
purr into the microphone and jest:
Never out of luck
Never out of love
Always out of cash
and a steady lover.
Never giving up
Always standing tall
Never marking time
Never lose my smile.