The Savor

I sat, mere six, on airport plastic seating, seeing

the grisly man with tubing from his neck, I checked

and it was real. His metal voice that clattered, flatter

than all those acres of linoleum checks. That neck,

it spoke no poetry, just hollow speaking, bleating.

In 'twenty twenty covid stole our taste. In case

we craved pragmatic lives, efficient, deficient

tongue buds slew that dream. The plate of steamy, creamy

mash with gravy moats that should be pleasant, wasn’t.

I smelled no poetry, just mounds of paste; no taste.

One leaf-crisp Fall I trail-side spied a youth, uncouth,

plod heedless by, ears plugged, head bowed to phone. Unknown

the living ancients clawed the sky in vivid hues, their clues

rained down, their pungent flags all flown, all shown.

He saw no poetry, just screen uncouth, fool youth.

In prison cells they sit with silent walls, who pause

not once to see and smell and sing in verse. The earth

displays, not flat but fragrant when allowed; most loud

when joined by pens that paint the earth in verse.

We live in poetry who freely pause, no walls.