Saturday, July 19, 2014
sure 'n we're not exactly in Dublin
nor New York, Paris, or Detroit--
nor servin' up parsnips, peas
or bitters nor pints o' Guiness.
Neither, fresh trout outta
the lake country in Windemere
or the Bras d'Or of Nova Scotia,
nay we be servin' words up --
sometimes with paper frills so's
you don't get your fingers
greasy, or trip the syllables on
your tongue. Servin' em on
forms - fancy and fine - free forms
and plain..made out of trees, or
ice cream or stones. Sharin'
'em on tablets, on b(logs) sent
through the air, we're readin'
on screens in airports, and bed-
rooms, on porches, in chairs,
at work on our breaks, on buses
and trains, sometimes in cars.
We're meetin' folks, sometimes hearin' 'em,
knowin' secrets & thoughts;
yet we're strangers -- we'd miss 'em
if we passed in the street.
It's crazy, it's cool, it's intimate, it's cozy,
it's familiar, and foreign, it's novel
it's groovy. We're servin' up a poetry
stew of words, made from letters
leaked from our hearts onto the keys,
sure it's music we're hearin' & sharin' in
our very own PUB and you're
welcome to come if you please &
stay if you want..
© Gay Reiser Cannon * 7.19.14 * All Rights Reserved