With another year of emotions to officially uncork
Poker faced poets stand on street corners,
Like town criers who have lost their bells,
And announce to startled scuttling strangers
Their innermost fears and desires.

But I think poetry is best wrongly addressed
Sent away, anywhere,
To hopefully lie down the back
Of someone's couch, unnoticed, unread
Or better still left for centuries
To mature in a dark basement
And then, when appearing quirkishly
Twenty first century
Opened by the timeless language of love.