They’ll tell you
(as they shift
their non prescription
John-Lenon-meets-Gandhi
glasses)
That they have wanderlust
For prose
And you want to tell them
That they don’t explore poems,
They hide in them
Like (and,
excuse the simile)
Literary refugees
They’ll tell you
That rain turns streets
Into brushstrokes
Instead of driving hazards
That roses and snow
And starlings with broken wings
Are grand, vast hints
In (and,
forgive the metaphor)
God’s fucked up
Game of clue.
And you want to tell them
That you suspect it was the english professor
In the library with a rope
Trapped in the nonfiction section.
