DEAD POETS’ QUARTER
After he died
they named a street after him.
A brief ceremony.
His ex-wife
did the right thing
and put in an appearance,
as did a handful of friends,
drunk and unhappy,
and some neighbourhood kids,
their game interrupted,
and their dog,
a forlorn little mutt.
A couple of former mistresses
hovered on the edge of the gathering.
keeping a weather eye on each other.
And, like them, the weather was wintry,
so proceedings were
held to a minimum
with a few words
from the chairperson
of the local arts department,
‘He did so much for poetry.
He made it accessible
to ordinary people,’
which was more
than could be said
of the street,
one of a series
of gaps between houses
in a new development
at the end of a bus route
where the grey blocks march
in the middle distance,
given names
to guide the visitor
through the grid-plan maze.
They’d run out of explorers
and nineteenth-century statesmen.
so they dubbed it ‘the poets’ quarter’.
It was the turn of the poets.
Surprised at so much attention,
they turned in their graves.
One of them
was even overheard muttering,
‘It’s almost worth being dead for.’