The British Man

I stumbled across a British man

while stumbling out of the bar, 

he picked me up with an outstretched hand,

while speaking from afar.

 

He did not look down on me,

but put me at his level.

He did not think that I needed therapy,

and told me about how hard he fell.

 

He said that he had met wizard,

or at least a well-dressed Indian.

He said that the wolves amongst sheep were his herd,

but it was his new life that he preferred.

 

I asked him, “Why? Did you not have fear?”

He shook his head.

He told me that he hadn’t eaten peas in five years.

Life was nothing but fear, nothing but laying in bed.

 

Across by an ocean

but there when I need.

Dry as a desert

his ideas plant seeds.

 

Thank you, British man,

you talkative bloke.

Not all stories need to end sad,

not all of us need to drown and to choke.

 

Published by

bendcharles

A schemer and a dreamer. I'm a #Métis author located in Saskatchewan who writes short stories, poetry, book reviews, and jokes.

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