Writers Envy
I get jealous
over prose
who possess the room through her lips
phonetic,
white lightening,
kissing the air with their intonations,
evoking
my frontal lobe
with alliteration and rhythm
the shoes
upon which to stomp
my feet, my feet, my feet
aloft
this stomping ground
in my head
where I hunt the mush valleys
for
a single
lotus blossom
of inspiration.
If I could covet
this poet's thoughts
her words, her tone, her imagery,
my poetry beast
would awaken
and shake his mane
roaring.
Instead
I sit spellbound,
listening to her vowels and consonants
fall on the roof
of this auditorium like rain pings
on aluminum,
wondering
when her thoughts end
and mine begin.
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