He is standing in my path
when I round the corner
10 years in his sweet brown eyes
shifting from one foot then the other.
His medusa long hair, tendrils
matted and wriggling at the waist
might snag me if I fail to stop
so I stop.
I write poetry… would you like to see one?
Confident, he places the page
in my open hand, 8 stanzas long,
and Xeroxed. Did you write this?
Yes & my brother types them
for me. His words about hope and
a pain he knows…and games, and how
words help him “see through” … he is
looking past me now, maybe counting
minutes until he can join his brother.
Did you know it’s national poetry month?
I ask fishing in my pockets, no he says.
Sell your poetry, $1.00/poem.
He looks up intent. And the next person you meet
tell them that you are a Poet
with a capital “P” and that your words
will change the world.