Poems by Richard P. Smith
Published in Sol 23:
RECEPTIONIST
Affixed in my affections,
her name the same as a certain radio station,
she calls to me tenderly over the tannoy,
the lovely lilt of her Irish accent
as creamy as a glass of Guinness:
"Mr Smith, you're wanted in the
conference room, please.
Mr Smith, you're wanted..."
Published in Sol 27:
LEMMINGS
The world has gone mad.
Everyone's got war fever.
So certain they've got right on their side,
They fling themselves into battle
Like lemmings flinging themselves off a cliff.
Copyright © Richard P. Smith