Howard Firkin
The fans of Keats read Shelley once, to weep
for their lost boy, the Peter Pan who tripped
before the ticking crocodile and dipped
out badly. Here’s a secret I won’t keep:
They skim. They do. Confront them and they blush.
The fans of Keats read Shelley once, to say
they’ve read it and to pass exams or find
a line that no one else is using, mind
you, one used in a last year’s class is okay;
let nothing keep them too long from their crush.
I walked out in the early morning sun;
its warmth eased through me, sudden, single malt.
To readers, hello from another one,
to fans of Keats, shouldn’t you be doing something more important? Like your hair?
for their lost boy, the Peter Pan who tripped
before the ticking crocodile and dipped
out badly. Here’s a secret I won’t keep:
They skim. They do. Confront them and they blush.
The fans of Keats read Shelley once, to say
they’ve read it and to pass exams or find
a line that no one else is using, mind
you, one used in a last year’s class is okay;
let nothing keep them too long from their crush.
I walked out in the early morning sun;
its warmth eased through me, sudden, single malt.
To readers, hello from another one,
to fans of Keats, shouldn’t you be doing something more important? Like your hair?