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Click hereI dropped the coins of my children
into the blind man’s cup,
first dues for the body poetica.
He didn’t say thank you,
didn’t even acknowledge the rattle
of metal on metal.
He must be deaf, I thought…
blind and
deaf and
mute.
Feeling almost sad,
I started away.
Wanna hear a poem,
he croaked.
Wanna hear a poem?
He emptied the cup into his pocket,
lowered his black glasses
to the perch of his nose
and peered me through.
Not daring to say no,
and still smarting
from the apparent larceny,
I nodded.
He unfolded himself,
drawing up on his white pencil cane
and cleared his throat:
Holding a child’s hand
I discover the beauty
I missed with my age
He crooked an evil smile,
squinting at me
first through one good eye,
then through the other,
waiting for me to speak.
Seconds ticked out of shape
as I searched for just the right words.
Failing, I said:
I wrote that.
He sneered at me, king to fool,
strangling a laugh.
You never own your children,
you silly, silly man.
This poem was selected from Lit's archive of over 39,000 poems for inclusion in today's Archival Review.<br>
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A poem about someone else reading you one of your own poems for a fee. Good.
You know I loved it. You have such a talent which I admire. Keep the beautiful poetry coming :)
Thanks for the poem and especially what inspired it. It's nice to see where poetry is born?what an experience too!
comes across almost like conversation....so matter of factly...it almost seems stating the obvious....so you never see the sucker punch coming.
*no thermometer in use
you pick the ripe moments / and look at them with a wonderful touch of both empathy and distance / your flow is gentle and strong at once /
Some folks don't like an explanation, but I do from time
to time. This was one of them.