She writes poetry like fusion jazz, more fun to make than to listen to. She stands at the podium serving as a bad example. I pray as she reads, “Lord, please don’t let me get sucked into the self-importance of bad poetry for the sake of peering peers, and forgetting to write what is there for the world, the readers, the things which bring the word pictures and sets them before me. Lord, remind me that the writing is not done for me, but done as Billy Collins quotes, for the love of strangers.”
Tops spin, do you?
DO WE SEE
The old man walked down the road to see the end,
I followed to glimpse the fruit of his pursuit.
Does the highway come to rest
Or like the river just feed a greater sea?
And time, will the clock stop him?
Can he win the treasure hunt
As the seconds tick away on the metronome?
Will the slowing of his steps
And the advancing of his age
Create a curve which will prevent his accomplishment?
Does this tag-along I am doing
Make me a part of his project?
The road is long and its end may never come, only ours.
When we take the road the road takes us.
More and less is what we are and so too the road.
I follow the contour of the ground
Which curves around the world
Spinning in our sky so we can all see the stars.
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault