The Poet is In.


Where does a poet punch in?

Starbucks? The kitchen counter? The train station?

The backyard hammock, while the bees and butterflies labor in nectar?

Is it in bed, snuggled up to your

neck, dear?

These poets.

How can one punch in when the mind is wrapped in rhyme 24/7,

and it’s hell until it’s written? And then it is heaven?

The life of observation, consternation, inside jokes, so very inside.

An outsider, who writes on the inside, errr.

And wonders, how such quiet words, once written,

soundless on a screen, or a note pad, or a grocery receipt,

Mean much, much more than they say?

Inuendo, intended.