When I finally have my book of poems, I will sign them for people, I will read it alone near a fire, roll it up, like a fly swatter, point to a market, carry it in my pocket. I will give it to a homeless guy and stuff five bucks in it. I will grin, in front of the literary dignitaries, Missionaries of hope...I will accept my acceptance, I will be, what I always wanted to be, a poet, among poets. Yes, Vic will lose a step in his chess game somewhere and quite frankly, I will be proud of, not just myself, but of every particle on earth. I will be proud to be human, again, once in for all. As the clouds move into and out of a paper thin sky, standing in my office with my tie, my snug old suit, I will say goodbye to everyone; my secretary will cut a cake, my assistant will measure my office, as I tip my hat to the trees through the glass of my familiar window, I will say hello to words.
Posted on: Sat, 06 Jul 2013 05:32:27 +0000