End of the day. A bar where you ought to leave a tip.
The green bird was saying pretty pretty pretty,
loved ones were walking home across the city.
I waved at the girl who waves her whip    ...    
but please be certain I’m a citizen    ...    
I take stuff to the dump    ...    or maybe it’s the tip?
I’m where the nitty really meets the gritty.

I know I find it hard to listen.
I read too much. I often need a drink.
It isn’t the world that makes us think,
it’s words that we can’t come up with.
Sure, I can work up fresh examples
and send them off to the committee.
But the poetry is in the bird. And in the pretty.

More Poems by Bill Manhire