Yet smile as I read of Ortygia
And the ground she led him to
I guess the writing was queer
For there is talk of homosexuality
And friends dying of aids
It is not criminology
Which takes me to such books
Or to the authors who write then
Indeed it is a trail of coincidences
Piled as high as logs for bonfire night
With gaps for readers to pinch a way through
No one reads or believes the stories
However often they unfold
The books remain virgin, seriously unsold
This one was from a public library
Some town named Fond du Lac
And numbered 821.914
I know nothing of social anthropology
Yet smile as I understand
His leaving of England for America
I guess the writer was gay
For I have heard of that artistic type
Through charities and emotional TV appeals
It is not though missing biology
Which takes me to his mathematics
Rather there is progression to his thoughts
Calculations of my very own
Piled as high as Pythagoras’ theorem
With mistakes which invite the reader's truths
No one reads or believes the poems
Whether typed in fine or bold
The poetry, my offerings, remain severely cold
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| Christopher's Website for his Collected Works |