Skip to content →

Inner Voice

Getting old,

living alone, I still

talk too much but to myself.

I talk my way through

procedures like

carrying books downstairs.

The monologue’s so stupid

I do it in farting Mockney

or worse, mincing

Estuarian: none of it worth

the touch of my own Standard Midland.

from Selected PoemsFind more by Roy Fisher at the library

Copyright © Roy Fisher
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Poems Roy Fisher

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.