I've got an idea for a title for my next collection, due 2015. It's The bacon bookmark. (This actually happened, when I was a junior librarian working in Bathgate). I just need to write the poem now. I know how it will end:
It could've been worse,
there was no brown sauce on it,
and it could've been a fried egg.
(We had love letters, French letters, oily bus tickets, and suspiciously brown scraps of paper returned from branches and centres, so there is a poem there waiting to be written).
However, sitting on the train in Waverley Station, waiting for it to leave for Plymouth via Dunbar and other station stops, as the 'train managers' now call them, this poem came:
[Poem removed for copyright reasons]
I've since discovered the statue is called Everyman, he doesn't have a beard, and he has brown skin. So I may need to edit this one later.
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