If Poetry Were a Man

If poetry were a man And he would be a man As he exhibits all the symptoms of the most haunting members of that sex On the one hand, a near-crippling arrogance, yet balanced by great likeability He dons black vintage t-shirts and a bomber jacket A girl in a red halter lights his cigarette He drinks espresso as lesser men drink water And the night, the beautiful night, is his. With us, his poets, he intrudes with a strange codependence And we respond with ready affinity His favorite time to visit is 3 am Drunk, of course. We make the coffee And as he sobers, he tells the most wonderful stories As we wait, pen in hand.