A Poet Exercises Self-Restraint                            

            The writer of prosaic poems
            That made a haiku seem
            A bit too long
            Came sauntering in, a thing
            Slung on his arm with a guitar
            Draped on her back
            He smiled at us across the room
            And he had reason to
            From what I saw
            Until she strummed a chord
            And sang
            Her voice was sweet as pie,
            Her eyes like dancing fire
            But when I recognised the twisted lyrics
            Dribbling out the corners of her lovely mouth
            As rancid juices of the would-be poet’s
            Semi-chewed morceaux
            I recognised a woman who was far too gone
            Behind the sockets and above the nose
            To risk for charms below
            I gave my philosophe a squeeze
            Whose being at my side
            Was nothingness perhaps to hers
            And others at the crowded bar,
            Although her French, bless her,
            For me at least
            Might count
            At times
            For more


            Emanuel E. García, The Virtues of Calamity, One Hundred Poems2013