A struggling poet’s dilemma

Metrophobia : Vs the power of the spoken word.

I was walking down the High Street,

when I saw a crowd all gathered around,

and as I peered between their legs,

I could just make out a body on the ground.

I stopped to see if I could help,

someone said “is anyone a doctor or nurse?”

I felt that I could help, but I was also very aware ,

of the awesome power, of the spoken word.

But I told myself I had to act,

I can help him and I know it.,

so I made my way through the crowd,

saying , “stand aside please I’m a poet.”

I didn’t have the luxury of time,

as his condition could possibly get worse,

so I immediately began to talk in rhyme,

and whispered to him a short and witty little verse.

As I began to loosen his clothes,

I asked if there was anyone who might know him,

In one ear I quoted some of my prose.

and in the other I whispered a poem.

He seemed to stir a little bit,

when I got to the end of verse two,

then suddenly he started to shake,

and he opened his eyes and came to.

He sat bolt upright and looked around,

then he turned white, and was violently sick,

then someone yelled somewhere in the crowd,

“that’s my cousin Harold and I think he’s Metrophobic.”

I back away immediately, to give him some air,

“it’s okay,” I say holding up my handsa

if he is a metrophobian I’m very well aware,

the last thing that he needs is a stanza.

Then the ambulance turned up,

the paramedics were on the scene and took charge, double quick,

and as I slipped away into the crowd,

once again I was very conscious of the fact ,

that my poetry had made somebody sick.

( but this time it was in a sort of good way)

Mark Crump June 2024©️