Poetry will be around
longer than you will.
It has been around
for longer than you have.
It will sit quietly in its loafers
and wait for a time when those more appreciative of it
will rise in the mid-afternoon
and pull a volume of Neruda
from their shelves.
Or when they drag home someone they picked up at the bar
that recites Charles Bukowski to them
or even when they’re alone
late at night
reading him themselves.
There will always be a place for Shakespeare, for Senghor,
for Rimbaud and Verlaine,
and for all the others, Rumi, and Ginsberg, in this world,
and every poet alive or dead
eagerly awaits the day
when they may be pulled out of a backpack
or from off a high perch
and they will always have time for those who wish to know
what dark and muddied secrets they had spilled onto the typewriter or inkstone
and will never hesitate to speak them.
They have written them for someone, or someplace,
or a time passed or an object that exists now only in their mind,
but they never mind those who peek inside to see
what words and wonders may appear.
But if you have no time for poetry
do not expect anyone to write any about you.