Ernesto P. Santiago Poet Free verse

The Reader

A poet
dresses the naked 
word, 

with emotions. Such as the air 
in this empty room sops the hand 
and satisfaction it gives. Still, 

the pen he has used 
flows again and the page cherishes 
that in its roots—
 
and produces blooms on the bed 
of spring. Ah, the spirits are splattering
on the tasteful styles, but the 

mails on your phone 
are comme il faut the summer sheets 
of petering dust. A note from him 

is among them, unread. I watch
at the poet. It is so vain not to peruse—
that I opt instead to read his soul.

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