The Poet
I'm continuing to write a series of poems about people - The Painter. The Beggar. The Politician. Stay tuned for occassionally more of the same ...
The Poet
He starts writing at 7:30 a.m. every day
with thoughts of nymphs dancing in his head,
and the hope that today will be the day
when the muse comes amusing.
No different from anyone playing the lottery.
He sits thinking, reading for hours, shifting his weight
from time to time, while tapping laboriously
into the machine, the few words that tickle him.
He’s 62 years old and the poverty,
the obscurity, doesn’t bother him.
No matter how damn unread he gets
there is the same urgency and firy, firm soul inside.
He writes about birds, death and things ignored
and of course, his own tortured, scarred heart;
he fills pages, one after the other, and
speaks to nobody lest an errant thought escape.
Occasionally during the day
he cracks open a beer or pours a whiskey
opening up his heart to that which might infuse.
At 4 p.m. or so, he gathers himself up
and walks back downstairs,
through the kitchen and out onto the small porch
where he once again sits down and
lets himself get lost in the busy life passing by outside.
He takes out a lone cigarette from his pocket,
casually lighting it and lifting it to his lips.
In due time, his wife brings him a cold drink
and cheerfully asks how his day was.
He thinks about the miracle
- surviving, able to write one more day,
and says,
“Just fine.”
