Poets Kiss and Make Up                                      

            At the showdown he –
            My poetasting
            Erstwhile friend of mine –
            Had dangling from his arm
            His singing acolyte and 
            I had my accoutrement  in tow,
            A Francophilic philosophe

            We made a truce of sorts 
            United in our deprecation of
            The melody and chord that
            Carried on their backs
            The most insipid ignorant vapidities –
            The words, I mean, of song –
            Which on their naked own
            Would make an emperor’s 

            The only little problem was
            That this created difficulties for
            The girl guitarist who had tried to
            Croon his mots before but then
            Decided they were just a bit arcane
            (An understatement)
            And began to write her own 
            To strum against

            Her music was okay but, I admit,
            The text she used made schmaltz appear
            Like caviar

            And as we listened I could see
            Upon my colleague’s face
            The struggle waged 
            Between a poet’s gain of flesh
            At the expense of what he might
            Have called his soul,
            And soul – though vanity 
            Was far more juste a term –
            Had gained a head of steam

            So when the singer threw herself
            Into his arms after her set
            Expecting accolades
            He coughed

            She was without a doubt
            Extremely easy on the eyes
            And hers, I couldn’t help but see,
            Began to fill with tears
            At the rebuff

            I did the only gentlemanly thing I could
            And tried to smooth the feathers of
            This wounded dove . . . 

            You know, I never thought of French philosophy
            As something practical
            But thankfully my former girlfriend
            Bit into my former friend’s morceaux
            (As he was wont to call his paltry verse)
            With such a stream of prose that night
            That songstresses and newfound lyricists
            Could exit without much ado

            I wouldn’t call them poetry, of course,
            My rhymes,
            Although to judge from their accompaniment
            My consolation must have been
            Devoutly wished


            Emanuel E. García, Wandering Bark2013