Carol Graser

Dear Poet,
 
in your wind pelted
honest leather, in your bandana
necessarily faded and blue
you stand with your 60 year old
youthful limbs
and tell me you write jazz poems
on your fiancés couch
that you fling them from your arms and
they all fly
You are miraculous, unattached
People call me, want my poems
in their books and you laugh
Poems rise up from your footfalls
Poems are left in your wake
You rub poems from your sleepy eyes
poems that are published the instant
they crystallize, your gems
your gifts, you only half try to create

Poet, I watch you play in this bright
lush field of poetry scams
You make a crown of dandelions
confetti your parade with torn up grass
You revel in the wildflower smell of this
particular artistic success

I watch you and I know
that it’s fake and it’s  real
that I’m on the other side of the tree line
sitting in the same tricky grass