Pleased To Invite You To Dine

The question arises, who am I
writing poetry for – and why?
My readership sees incongruity
on the one hand ensnared with
a sense of intrigue on the other.

It amazes them, fazes their symmetry
calls for explanation.
But why bother. Why not lie.
Why not seem to come clean and say –
really,
no-one!
Does it matter?

Though (to me) it would not be true.
There is no-one but you to write for;
– just you, the ubiquitous you,
the ephemeral you.

If I wrote only for me
it would be a bare-table feast,
lonely, with beer and fries
– and admiring flies.

I sincerely do not care to dine
alone, I like feasts to be
gourmand’s retreats; raucous
with wine and boisterous company
that’s why I’m pleased to
invite you to dine.
© I.D. Carswell 2007-02-07