Something old, something new...

The Silent Poet in the Room

Maybe I
am the silent poet
in the room
though no poets
should be silent. They might not

know how to look at me
or what can be done
with a degree
in poetry.
So I am sitting down

and watching them move
about the room,
quite content
to watch their mouths,
the silent poet in the room.

They don’t know
that I might see the room
as blank pages,
prepositions
laid out with the forks on the table.

Woman lifts a verb
to her lips, tasting subjunctive
—would that she
could read
the adverbs perfectly lining the window.

It’s all so very nice
but where
did you put the questions
that might spark some interest?
Woman: Did you ever hear
of a man painting wings
on the sky?

Older Woman: Where
did you husband go
after he died?

Mother: Was it quiet
inside just before
you broke your heart?

Questions loaded
with complex clauses,
and I,
the silent poet in the room,
am churning them
for roots and verbs
to hang like charms
on my skin.

But then—
maybe it’s enough
for them
to let the dusk roll
into mere colors
and not observe the poet
in the room.