Poets Write

Poetry is
the kind of things poets write,
according to Robert Frost,
just what a taciturn
New Englander might spin
from wry lips,
turning from his work
restoring a stone wall
to squint
into weak autumn sun.
You study
the lines emanating
from the corner of his eye
like sun rays
in a child’s drawing.
Love is
the kind of things lovers do,
touching old scars
like reading a map,
or clasping hands
to run across four lanes
against the signal
in light rain.
They hop the puddle
by the far curb
and land with a four-foot stomp
and turn to each other,
breathing.
A gesture
flits across the damp air
between them
light as a butterfly,
a flutter-by.
And then it is gone,
fingers uncurling.
They close their letters
kissssssss
because they are poets
who favor nouns and verbs
and kissssssss is both,
the kind of things
poets write.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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