It’s National Poetry Day.

If Oscar was sat across from me
in a coffee shop at half past three
in the afternoon, would he swoon?
To read the poems I wrote for you.

Keaton would shudder at the way
they ask, head inclined, about my day.
Poor boy, so coy, I might employ
a different approach to unwind to.

Ms Duffy might say “fuck it”
to the entire thing, real wit
comes naturally to she.
My Scottish Heroine.

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