Did the poetry make sense of it all?
Did it take you to places you
always imagined you’d know?
Where the minutes you stole
for yourself in a quiet, kid free room
worth missing your son
take his first jelly-legged steps?
Or seeing him shaggy haired;
warm skinned, shortly after waking.
Was it worth missing out on the fun
Of an autumn walk, the gathering
And scattering of leaves?
It was not you who plucked the splinter
from the finger, or took the role of
biased fan on a cold February morning
To read your words one might think
it was you who prized the cat from
the clamped jaws of the stray dog.
Or who witnessed the roses
romance the bees, and then seduce
the camera into clicking too soon.
But to reverse the process:
tracing words back to the pen,
pen to hand, hand to wrist and so on,
until reaching the memory room
would I find myself
as I have so often done
upon waking mid-morning-
looking at the television
replete of picture
just a snowstorm of unconnected static.
You gave it all up in the name of art
and in return was awarded
A place on my bookshelf
Crammed between books on true-crime.
Just what an Ex. might likely say - being partnered to a Poet is not the best of jobs I would say - but you said it much better here my friend. I hope from that vivid imagination you possess and not from sheer weary experience. Some of us have been there both ways of course. A rant of a read and so readable - - as always.