I sit on the wall on a wonk.

Some might see me as

a flower; some might try to

straighten me then realise

I was better before, or not,

as the case may be.

Some might put me under

picture lights; exhibit me –

as a work of art.

Some might critique me:

shoddy, abstract, exquisite

or, indeed, utter bullshit.

But I sit on the wall on

a wonk none the less

reflecting spectators.