Gordon Scapens

Sanity Inspector

A sanity inspector calls,
says I’ve scrawled poems
in my head, suspicious statements.

He thinks he can see
my lonely wasted pleading
behind the charade of eyes,

once hoped-for ideals of peace
with nowhere to belong
in the world’s parade.

But he can’t prove anything
without knowing a mask
covers a face of helplessness,

or until he can recognise
the attitude of a man drowning
in his own convictions.

The words are locked away,
doing time in solitary,
like prison inmates

crossing off days
that are bare
on a cell wall,

slowly losing faith.

Widely published over many years in a variety of magazines, journals, anthologies and competitions. Reviews poems for the experience. Lives in a suburb of Preston with his wife, who is friend, critic, muse and editor.