Vernon Witmer Poet Free verse

Notes About The Poem

the gray of today in the long yawn of awakening

each sleight is the haunt 
of some evicted ghost.
grieving me a life of greater pain;
I see pieces of people passing, 
drifting into the footsteps 
of another's future. 

I feel the rough sandpaper surface 
of the concrete bridge 
as I  prepare to jump. 
For a moment my heart slumps.  
It takes the smallest of memories 
to interrupt a courage. 

I thought each flower finer 
in a different way, 
if there’s a word for that, 
I cannot say.  

Far more acute 
than any thing precise,  
far more astute 
than scholarly advice. 

Is there a right kind of poetry?  

In a room far away 
behind a desk in an office, 
someone else decides.

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