What Would Shakespeare Write Now? Poem by Paul Reed

Old cars rusted in a heap

Doors ajar and tilted-up bonnets,

Forgotten, discarded, put to sleep

Like William Shakespeare's sonnets;



An uneven hedge, crudely hacked

A street with people thronging,

A life lived that somehow lacked

A sad craving for belonging;



Shadowy oil paintings hung on walls

Painted by the Old Masters,

Did anyone hear their panicking calls

Offered them some sticking plasters?



What would Shakespeare write now?

Use a keyboard - would he even know how?