Poetry is not your thing
the way music is your thing—
and it doesn’t seem as exciting
as the symphony
or the flexible pink lady
who dances into the naked arms
of the young man onstage,
whose body resembles a slingshot
as he lifts her into flight.

Poetry isn’t my thing,
you say to yourself
in the absence of music
as you wander onto the stage
of your imaginary life
where you’d trade anything
to feel that high, that moved—
especially the poem in your hand
which is somehow beginning to sing.


DeMaris Gaunt


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