Poems about nothing

Poems about nothing

There’s a man digging for lugworms –
Or scallops, or razor clams, or something –
Out in Holes Bay when I get home
Almost every day:

Depending on the turn of the tide,
And whether or not I’ve been to Asda
And waited in the self-service checkout queue,
Watching imbeciles argue with robots
As the sun goes down outside.

Sometimes he’s two men;
On the weekend once he was three,
But, either way, there he is
With what I assume is a spade

And what can only be a bucket
By his side, and a trail of upset mud
In his wake – as if life wasn’t hard enough
For mud, these days.

I watch him sometimes –
Sometimes when I’m supposed to be
Doing something else –
And think “There’s a poem in that,
Somewhere: but I don’t know what it is.”

No doubt it would be a better one
If I were doing the digging,
But look at me – I’m not about to
Get up to my knees in mud for
Some spineless hors d’oeuvres.

Not at this time of year.
I’ve got better things to do,

And it looks cold out there,
And my laptop light’s enticing,
And I’ve got better things to do
Like writing poems
About nothing.

Appears in:
Mistaken for art or rubbish [2013]


3 thoughts on “Poems about nothing

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