Great poems! said the multi-published writer in the break
- to the local next to me,
who'd effed and blinded through his lines,
with stylish vigour and panache.
Accidentally, the author caught my eye;
"Yours too", he said,
excruciatingly polite.
"Didn't quite get what you were ...."
I watched him, frozen,
as you might a snake about to strike.
"Private school yours went to, did they?"
he continued.
"When you said 'the tattooed mums....'"
He trailed off while I forgot to praise his latest book
figuring something had just happened,
just not sure yet what.
"Er, no." I said and realised then,
he hadn't heard the poem, just the accent
and deafening instinct told him:
posh, prejudiced, privileged English sap.
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