walked to the podium
carrying his notebook
and wearing a suit
I did not hear
his first dozen lines
unadmiring his suit
sure no good poet wore one
and then an image caught my mind
danced it like a hooked trout
leaps from its stream
I was trapped in his dream
I think he must have reeled me in
gently released the hook
tossed me back in
I eyed his bait warily then
he had more images that danced
and played along stream’s top
he wove sunlight into soap film
while I watched askance
and I suppose he might have heard
me as leerily
a poet in jeans and boots?
whyever listen?
I may have learned a little
I still distrust a suit
but wryly remember the hook’s tug
and sunlight’s play on waves
No comments:
Post a Comment