I occupy the park bench long enough
to feed the sea gulls half my bloody lunch.
They know precisely by some gastric hunch
when it runs out, and when it does, they’re off.
They’re birds with little use for sentiment.
This moment, my estate is only that
my broad arse covers. What of intellect?
What gems of mine can any recollect?
The half thoughts mumbled, scribbled, shouted, spat;
the words I used which weren’t quite what I meant.
I stood; I fell; I cried and sucked my thumbs;
I tried to learn my tables; did my sums;
I married; worked; I wiped up tiny bums;
and after sea gulls, sparrows search for crumbs.