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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

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