The Poet
I saw a man in the park today
he was tall and thin like a candle
his tongue a wick on fire
he lifted his hand as he spoke
moved it with each word
like a maestro’s baton at the podium
he was swingin’ man
like the shouting children in the playground
pumping upward toward the sky
like mr cummings
with his word leaves
swaying down the page
when someone asked
what does it mean
and then someone said
he’s saying the head is like a walnut
to be cracked open
so we can see the dense, sweet nuttiness inside
and someone cooed
he’s soooo wonderful
his eyes are two wide-open mirrors
someone, who was crying, said
I am so very happy
now that I can feel my sadness
and someone said, be careful, he can see inside
next thing you know
he’ll be hanging his heart in our shop windows
but the crowd stayed
swallowing his words
to some like sugar, to some like wine
to others
like a stone
too big for their throats
until the poet took pity on them
and plucked birds from the clouds
stringing them together to make a kite
then, grabbing hold of the tail
he described the wind with such admiration
it could not help but appear and carry him away