by Fleur Adcock
There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.
There are worse things than these miniature betrayals,
committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things
than not being able to sleep for thinking about them.
It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in
and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.
Just a reminder of a few Things before the start of the holiday weekend so you won’t have Worse Things to deal with come Monday (or Wednesday if you’ve got a long break).
Poet Fleur Adcock was born in 1934 in Auckland, New Zealand, but spent World War II in England. She moved back to New Zealand to attend university, and then made her career as a librarian in London before turning to writing and translating full-time.
Although this poem falls under “light verse,” her other work does not, and she has won many awards, among them the very grand-sounding “Queen’s Medal for Poetry.”
For a droll profile of this very English poet, link here.
Happy Fourth of July, everyone!