Near as I can tell
being a poet means
sharpening a pencil
at 2 a.m. by lantern light
with a jar of hard cider
by your side, because
you can't sleep.
It's that you think this
is a good idea,
that you want to write down
the sound of the saxophone
playing at the top
of Poet's Seat Tower
one summer night, months
ago. Pencil shavings
are deliciously analog,
and it's better than worrying
about the price of cord wood
or what your wife said
to you last night, in a fit
of pique. You think
of mussels, blue cheese,
wild apple cider.
You think of yeasts.
You think of the meaning
of spirit, what is left
after the fermentation is done.
It all looks better
by lantern light -- all the breaks,
all the lines. You can't sleep
because you're fermenting.
The night is just the place
where it's only you.
The neighbors are all sleeping.
An old lullaby mix plays
faintly over the baby monitor.
It plays for you, like the saxophone.
The cider is half decent.
Yours will be better. It will taste
like the whole tree -- twigs
and all.
