the poet

The humble man sits for hours
awaiting a poem
an attention
That rivals architectures
latticed with money
systems or
knotted with micro
surgeons

His work is anticipation
threshing out the
thoughts of silence
That contrast harmonies
colored with signatures
once empty
never heard until
now

He is commonly seen
as an isolated man
unnoteworthy
Because imagination
defies what was,
falling forward
out of meager
answers

His metaphor is meat and sleep
as usual among
any tribe
The communal tone of
histories ripe
with belief bringing
daily bread by day;
then bedded night

His listening is wealthy
with tutors of
wisdom
That is dispensed among
unsighted waterways
agreed on in
corner diners;
familiar

He sees and he hears and
he feels and he
speaks
That patience of books
which lie peaceful,
all worlds; not lonely, but heavens
love caused to write.