<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
there is a poet crying. she read her poem earlier.<\/p>\n
now it is not her turn to read. it\u2019s her time to cry.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
perhaps the cheap cardboard wine loosened a sad memory,<\/p>\n
sent it spilling onto the floor, a moan leaking from her eyes.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
the other poets ignore her, embarrassed. dictionaries with hair.<\/p>\n
bower birds of words. after all, she\u2019s had her turn.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
besides, they prefer their emotions to be distilled to an essence,<\/p>\n
boiled away to leave a black residue on white paper.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u00a9 <\/em>rob walker<\/p>\n (first published Red River Review<\/em> (US), Nov, 2011)<\/p>\n Also in tropeland<\/a> (Five Islands Press) 2015<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" there is a poet crying. she read her poem earlier. now it is not her turn to read. it\u2019s her time to cry. perhaps the cheap cardboard wine loosened a sad memory, sent it spilling onto the … Continue reading