Poem Reader

I wonder about you, who stands before the fire,

Reading from that tiny scrap of paper,

Someplace in the corner of your mind.

Reading tiny scraps of poems, not really understanding

But relaying their feelings, it a strangely palpable way.

I can feel it when you walk up there, slowly, carefully,

Your silver mustache reflecting the dull light of the dying fire.

You have been here many times before, before many different fires,

Many different trees, many different dull, expressionless faces

That glow in the firelight, waiting for your long awaited soliloquy.

Then you begin, in your long Texas drawl, which we all mock

And yet we all seem to adore. And when you’ve finished,

We gather round you in the dark, the last breaths of coals on our ankles,

We truly understand.

Reviews

[miSS LEaf]

magnificent.... i love your style, very TS Eliot :) ~L

[Emily B]

We mock the society we find, still wishing for the perfect people to share the poems with . . . one day, I'm sure we'll find those poem readers with the perfect tone and pitch and understanding of the words on the worn pieces of paper, their eyes will reflect fire and we will all be moved