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.
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