Poet's thought

Everyone needs a little irony in their diet, and this poem is chock-full of it. I was very frustrated at not being able to think of anything to write, so I wrote this.


I never could see a poet's thought;
I read little in his face --
just the bright, piercing eyes, squinting
as if looking from a distance at the word, coaxing
to light willfully its shiest secrets for men
who see naught in aught at the last.

His distant smile seems to boast that it understands
the spells his pen incants, while wrinkles
gather about these soft invocations, curious,
straining like children listening
for what old eyes have learned.

I never could read a poet's thought;
I see little in his words --
just the rough texture of sandpaper-syllables,
dots and commas poised to pierce the skin
and spill forth a pain called thought and my wish
that just once I could bend far enough over
to drip onto eloquent paper
an original verse.