The Tide is Out

A ship that’s accidentally run aground

might day-dream of the previous high tide.

A fish that’s beached itself and slowly drowned

lies lifeless at the sun-baked waterside.

These poems are the dreadful rasping sound

I’m making as I slowly get tongue-tied.

A tank abandoned on the battleground

will rust if it remains unoccupied.

I try to be your faithful palace hound

but all the fight in me has slowly died.

My poetry has never been profound.

I know my protestations are cock-eyed

but I’m nothing much when you are not around

and you are otherwise preoccupied.