A View of Poets Poem by Mark Haddon

They are seldom racing cyclists
And are largely innocent of the workings of the petrol engine
They are, however, comfortable in taxis.
They are abroad in the small hours
And will seek out the caustic blue liqueur
You purchased in Majorca for comedy reasons and will rise late.
There are whole streets where their work is not known.
Spectacles, a father in the army and the distance to the next farm
Made them solitary.
Their pets were given elaborate funerals.
No-one understands them.
They are inordinately proud of this.