Since my visit to the British Museum I've googled Sheenagh Pugh whose 'Sometimes' poem was included in the 'Cradle to Grave' exhibition. Oops! Under the title, 'the dreaded Sometimes' I learned that she "long ago got sick of it" and no longer likes to have her name associated with that piece of work. So it seems that, as is often the case, I am late to the party! Nevertheless I am pleased to discover a poet who is new to me.
Here's a poem that I wrote on the train home.
In the quiet carriage
people have wires attached
and are elsewhere,
unaware of fellow travellers.
Someone's eating crisps,
salt and vinegar,
crackle and crunch in the quiet carriage.
I've eaten nothing since my lunch.
But there are coughs and sneezes,
the threat of diseases.
I'll keep my sandwich in it's paper bag.
I think it is too bad
that no-one uses hankies anymore.
I'm lost without a neatly folded square,
and a spare - a generational thing.
I'm feeling weary, happy to be sitting down,
an unwired pensioner
who rarely visits town.