There is poetry in people:
As each anecdote is completed
no capture attempt succeeds.
Verses dance out of reach,
the flavour dawdles.
Memory's fists leach
the blood and paw the
night they lost Derek
and Karen fell asleep.
(Explanation: I wrote this in January 2002. I'd met my friend, Catherine, who recounted adventures of a night out in Cork City she had been on with other friends of ours. I remember thinking her descriptions -of the things she could actually remember- were like poetry.
Inspired by: Catherine Cogan)
