Reading My Work
I look at the
faces in front of me
with my work, my naked poems
all eyes, expectant, ready to hear me read them.
But I feel my words wooden-thumbed
They seem like dead things to me now
Plain ideas garbled into nonsense.
How presumptuous to claim
I could be a writer
I feel like a gate-crasher
At a private party for real poets
Then I think of how the
words sing me sometimes
When my pen skips across the page
Dancing delight with word magic
saying the unsayable with astonishing beauty