He nods at my notebook,
I feel my brows furrow
"Since I was in kindergarten.
started with the alphabet
then put 'em together
to make words.
eventually came paragraphs
those were tough, but
I think I managed to mastered them."
He doesn't balk at the subtle
a small smirk buds at the corner
of his lips, "I meant,
do you write poetry?"
"Poetry?" I shake my head
raise a brow at his audacity to think
I write poetry.
I hear, taste, smell, see,
but write poetry?
I would never be so presumptuous."
"Well then," he pulls out a chair,
settles in, "you've peaked my interest,
what does poetry sound, taste,
smell, look and feel like?"
I sized him up for a moment
deemed him worthy
like the musical serenade of the cicadas;
like copper from a bloody lip;
like salty ocean waves lapping at the shore line;
like the wrinkled old eyes of a lover's gaze;
like distressed furniture -- smooth in spots -- rough
"Hmm..." he sat back -- thought-filled eyes
staring into nothing;
As the cloud passed he looked up at me,
"Yes; yes they do." and we sit
silently breathing in the poetry