He takes a 4% ale off his lips
during a gap in my conversation
to say he reads my monthly poetry
printed in the local beer magazine.

He finds strength in his cheeks to show his teeth
to me and a stranger turned acquaintance
before listing the poets who raised him:
Robert Burns, William Wordsworth, one more.

He says it took him time to get used to
modern styles, themes, a lack of imagery,
but he likes them now. Then he challenged me
to write a poem with ten syllable lines.

Carl Burkitt 2024