To the Lonely Poets

You have to fit your words through the tiniest of pencil points, pen tips, into boxes and drawers with no light, and invisible, be noticed and voiceless, be heard. Yet you keep on, pushing the words through. You write and write and write and write until all of the misty streets are covered with your pages and people pick them up- They take them home and read them to their husbands and wives and children and parents while leaning over the stove, steam loosening your words. They fall asleep with your words. and awake wearing them feeling them- In them.