~The Poet’s Poet~
He has poems scribbled on paper of every hue
Poems he’d written, nay, scratched on foolscap margins
Poems he’d typed and printed then put on the back burner
Clever poems, short poems, even stupid poems
Luckily the poems did not know that
Then again who knows?
Those monsters come to haunt him in the dark of night.
As he awakens to the fresh scent of dawn
Poetic thoughts now long gone leave him blank faced
He speaks to no one but himself, the loudest response his echo
Entering the kitchen wearily scratching his head
God is in her element humming away to herself
Kneading dough for early morning bake.
© Chris Black. March 2019