An Old Poet

An old poet

arrives at a reading,

sits alone, waits his

turn;

his breath a hiss—

issued patiently.

 

old words held

close to a sudden

drop—

 

a

sudden

drop

in

the

cave

of

his

stooped

chest.

 

***

 

He grumbles

an introduction to the crowd,

recounts an old heart’s

bruising—

 

to the room, to some empty chairs,

to other poets gathered,

too young to know:

 

he had long forgotten

the poem’s reason—

 

but still holds it

close—and shares

it again, just as easy.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s