Saturday, April 20, 2013

V. 2, #24: April 20, 2013

Someone is reading poetry tonight,
and folks are listening most attentively;
he's got a podium, a reading light,
a glass of water near at hand. To see

him standing in his spot, reciting lines
he birthed as painfully as any child,
the crowd has traveled miles, dressed to the nines.
They've ordered drinks, in homage to this wild

young worshiper of Euterpe, this odd
interpreter of universal themes,
this tireless troubadour, picked out by God
to shape the world through fevered songs and dreams--

While I count syllables and sip my tea,
in hopes that next year, maybe, he'll be me.


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