My parents don’t do poetry,
they read novels not poetry collections,
preferring chapters to stanzas.
My parents don’t do poetry,
yet they point out every spoken word night in the area,
sending me screenshots and saving newspaper clippings.
My parents don’t do poetry,
or so they tell me, when I excitedly recite
wonderful lines from my new favourite poet.
My parents don’t do poetry
yet they come along to each of my readings,
whooping and cheering, clapping and pointing,
that’s my boy.
My parents don’t do poetry,
but on each bookshop and library visit,
they scour the poetry section
so they can buy me a new book for my collection.
My parents don’t do poetry
yet they have a favourite poet
who shares their last name,
and who wouldn’t be a poet without them.