Poets In the Street

We sit and share a seat, two faces in the street, wading through our wisdom and design. ‘Though in amble wasn’t said, I knew I am being led, into mirrored thinking same as mine. Two poets of a kind, at this establishment did find, we have listed through a wild rhythmic storm, where our words are meaningful, with a magnetic pull, tossed and turned by course heraldic form. We search for inner sanctum news, within each other’s views, to accelerate a protest of our own, now the writing’s in my head, on paper must be said. So must be written, when I am alone. I guess you feel the same, so we exchange a name, to employ a friend and hope some day a mate. For in this time we pass, I pray there is no farce. The friendship we are welding won’t abate. We discussed the poor. What we are aiming for. You itched to ply the strings on your guitar. Then you recited sordid stains, of little children’s pains, highlighted for all time for what they are. In conversation ‘bout my verse, that is wide and quite diverse, an apology broke in through a line. His want was desperate, a soothing cigarette; when you took a draw he saw the sign. His lighter was his ‘poke’, exchanging for a smoke; you took up the offer of his bid. Silently I’m watching you, hand across this fellow two, thinking, ‘that’s a generous thing you did.’ Then I watched this bloke, light up his bartered smoke, you took his lighter and the deal was done. Before he turned from you, you spoke without review “You might need this to light the other one.” That was just a small time bid, though generous what you did, an action bringing forward your trait. With understanding for the lost, and a minute personal cost, instantly you turned a friend into a mate.