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 So 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 Theoretically Might count At times For more ________________________________________________________________________ Emanuel E. García, The Virtues of Calamity, One Hundred Poems, 2013 |