When I posted about Gwendolyn Brooks, I did not realize it was World Poetry Day. Apparently, it is. Fortuitous. I am always writing poems, most of which are kind of cruddy. Here is one that isn’t so bad, which I wrote a while back about my time living in Istanbul. True story.
In the small shops
in my old neighbourhood in Istanbul
the shopkeepers would use a battered shoebox
as a cash register. They would leave me alone
with it – no locks
in sight, as they went down the road to get me a tea, a cay,
sweet and dark like amber fossilized into stone.
They had faith that I was good. They were lucky. In the main
I was. I was me: not perfect but never one
to spit at trust.