16 November 2013

I was sitting on the back portal

in the last sun of a cold day. Kiddo was on my lap pretending to sleep. suddenly he got up   left my lap for the green & white stripes of the lounge chair. he made a circle & returnd to my lap   resuming the exact position he had left.  that was a poem.  his poem.  a cat's poem.

I told him that.  out loud. & stroked his gray fur while I told myself that poems are everywhere. I find them in newspapers & movies & cookbooks.  sometimes the ones under stones or in blood gushing from a wound are harder to transcribe.

for something like 60 years I have written thousands of poems.  early on I was told what a poem shd be so that's what my poems were. for years I read the great poets & honord each by imitating what they wrote. but as I lived & wrote I came to trust what was mine.  I cd look at the change in my pocket or the stain of sex on a sheet & see a poem. 

I tried to tell Kiddo some of this. but he had already written his poem & had no need to hear me. his ears twitched not at sound of my voice but at flutter of bird wings.  he was off my lap & ready for an adventure. so I went inside to assemble a sonnet of baby kale & raw garlic.

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