I've been moving the lines of this poem about trying to get it as clear and concise as I can. You can read the earlier version here.
CHARADE
I almost bump into Carey Grant
In the toilet of a cinema in Warrington
his image is all over one of the walls
look at the enlarged whites of his eyes
He’s in such a pickle
frozen in black and white and panic
Definitely flight or fight mode
who wouldn’t be
He’s being chased
by a crop dusting aeroplane
And is stuck in the re-creation
of someone else’s nightmare
As if he didn’t have enough
of his own to be going on with
I've changed some of the lines about and I think I'm finally satisfied with it. As I get older I find myself tinkering with poems in a manner I don't think I would have when younger. I suppose it's the distance from the poem that enables me to see other possibilities in the words.
Here's another enchanting song by Brooke Sharkey. You can buy her new album here.
Until next time.
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