And The Winner Is...

By mid-month (they said) announcements would be made
and here’s September galloping away
but nothing in the post (I don’t do text)
perhaps the winner’s letter’s gone astray.

I’ve been dreaming these past weeks it might be me
like Beryl at the Booker, I’ve puffed on
imagining the moment through the smoke
of chance — the very fluke that says I’ve won.

Ridiculous, of course, the odds are all against
and yet hope clings — its weight a ball and chain
I really should resign myself — accept
I’ve failed to make the running once again.

So, no congrats, no hefty corporate cheque
to clutch amid publicity’s sharp glare
no speech to make of thanks to one and all
or tripping up the podium’s steep stair.

Unsung and unapplauded, I’ll remain a further year
then maybe have a last ditch stab or two
but the voice inside is musing (loud and all too clear)
I’d just as well flush poems down the loo.