Taking Poetry Public

He’s a grump, wears
that Midas smile. He is
a pirate with no ship.
With no bird. Although
starlings chirp a mean
slang at him. He loves
music. Good music. He
loves words. Good books.
Sometimes he thinks
too much, but he’s a poet
too. There’s that. Maybe
that’s what’s killing him.
Drinking all them words
like cognac. Smoking
all them words like the
aged leaves in a Cuban.
And what does it get
him? All them damn books
on figurative archipelagos.
Sitting up on Saturday
mornings, waiting for the
sun to do its thang with
them beams. Making
him real. Giving his
shadow one more dance.

By Curtis L Crisler