Oct 2018
WRITING BAREFOOT
Being frisked
at Dublin airport.
"What's dat in yer
back pocket?"
"An unfinished poem!"
I admit ruefully.
"Is it metal?"
he asks.
"No, it's mental!"
I tell him.
"You know, a bunch of words
hanging about on a piece of paper."
"Go on with ya!"
he smirks.
"And next time...
remove yer shoes."
On the plane I
kick off my shoes and
finish off the unfinished
poem.
Now I
always write barefoot.
Being frisked
at Dublin airport.
"What's dat in yer
back pocket?"
"An unfinished poem!"
I admit ruefully.
"Is it metal?"
he asks.
"No, it's mental!"
I tell him.
"You know, a bunch of words
hanging about on a piece of paper."
"Go on with ya!"
he smirks.
"And next time...
remove yer shoes."
On the plane I
kick off my shoes and
finish off the unfinished
poem.
Now I
always write barefoot.
On my way to Jersey to perform at the Opera House I was asked at the airport after a thorough search refused to yield why I had bleeped...."Excuse me sir but could I look inside your hair?" I was only hiding curly thoughts inside my curly hair.
