That a difference exists is remarked upon,
voiced in the peripheral  stare
the quizzical arched brow
and so remains unremarkable itself
until  given the distinction of breath;
'Poetry is a bit heavy for the morning isn't it?'
The rhetoric is followed without pause by
lines from Spike that rhyme from tongue
as a ***** ballad might punctuate the air between
rounds of Stella. Whist I might despair
at constrained definitions there is a concurrency
of  acknowledgement with slight smile
at some appreciation of verse, a remark of difference.
I close a leaf and see the possibilities
of Sycamore and wordpecker.

It is in this space
Where thoughts can dance unconstrained
Of the concessions
To jealousy and stricture
Where tangos are passionate

So instinctively
A working class classicist
That his shopping lists,
Though composed as ottava
Rima's, always contained slang

Echoes, not retorts;
sound reverberates from walls
that constrain the singular,
curtailing the enthusiasms
gained from conversation;
increasingly concerns
remain unrequited
yet laughter repeats
reflecting mocking repetitions

It will be by TXT
That you will impart your worst,
At a safe distance,
Not from fear of violence -
Guilt is lighter without eyes

Compressed into this
Tiny space are the future
Boughs, leaves and flowers,
Random determinism,
Forrests from a single seed

Blink and you miss it
Time is a somnambulist,
Travelling without
Realisation of the
Destination or purpose