You
So you want a poem?
It will be just trash
And quick trash at that.
No rhyme, no, no rhyme
And definitely no rhythm too.
But it will be a poem.
Just the same as brushing the sand from your feet
Holding your fingers as you brown in the sun.
I will carry your towel, your sherpa for life
Watching what we will become pass by.
It’s hard to write when I’m enjoying life.
Watch out I was tempted to make it rhyme.
And what will I call this?
I’ll call it simply ‘You’.
