When Rob turned 52 he had an amazing idea. He would write 52 poems: one a week, every week, for a year. People would be amazed, and call him a genius, and maybe bring him biscuits. They’d say things like, “How sensitive!” and “Oh, the maturity of the themes!”
Well, here they are, 52 poems. Except there’s 53 because he got confused about the numbering. And the themes aren’t quite as mature as he was hoping.
There’s one about how great it is to find a good stick. There’s an alien invasion defeated by sarcasm. A skeleton who wants to cry. A scary old English teacher. Some sad robots. And one which features a dinosaur, a banana and a Twix.
There’s stuff about love, obviously. And loss, and joy, and music, and childhood. A few about how hard it is to be a poet, despite all the evidence to the contrary. A sad one about a dog. You get the idea.
It turns out that being 52 isn’t the same as being a grown up. We’re basically children, trying to make sense of overwhelming things through daft stories and rhymes. Here are 52 poems to prove it.