Enjambment

i.

It’s funny (or

Not) how rarely

The Poem

Is read.

I’m not talking about

The poem; the one,

Idly perused over latte,

Dog-eared by the student,

Or looked up as an example

Of a villanelle.

I mean:

The Poem, the one

Capitalized at

Wakes, weddings,

Chosen for

Wooing or swearing in.

It’s as if we forget

In the relentless punctuation

Of Taco Tuesday or Hump Day

That the Poem is waiting.

ii.

At T.’s celebration of life

In Austin, her husband

Had hired a NOLA-style band.

We marched around the block,

Boogying to When The Saints,

And stopping in shade for His Eye

Is On the Sparrow.

And I heard her Poem,

Keeping the beat,

Playing the 'bone,

As is only befitting

When the living parade

After the gone-before

Into Texan dusk.

iii.

The Poem is as everyday

As washcloths but as winged

As cherubim.

The Poem is both the ascent

Of a bluesy sax on Lonesome Street

And a goofily-tuned Sunday cartoon.

It’s the resting of Bedouins

After a long desert night trek

And the red-eye joe served

As a wake-up at the truckers’

Chapel on wheels.

The Poem is in our blood

At the second the heart

Switches its tides

From indigo to crimson.

It’s in our wild birth yawp.

Our lifelong howl.

It’s at our last gasp

When our breath

Is purified by our beseeching.

When the party winds down;

When we arrive in Selma,

Nashville, or Nirvana;

When July shrugs at Pride;

When the red carpet rolls up,

The Poem still abides.