2/3 Train 96th Street, November 26, 2013
The first stranger to get inside my head!!! I didn’t know about the door in my forehead, but it must be true. Too many poets have been reading my mind. He didn’t let us see his door, only a reflection. A writer, of course, an original one. I hope he’s not the last one to see it this way ;).
Explanation Of The Statistically Impossible Consistency Of On The Spot Poetry
Perhaps there is a door
On your forehead?
Hello stranger!
Could you come inside
sit at my wooden table
and write a poem with the words you find scrawled on the walls?
But that is sci-fi.
Really they see the body language
and smell your stealth pheromones
along with the wind stirred by spilled ink
the glow of pleasure in the corners of your face
Your hair generating a static charge, the frequency broadcasting “write it.”
They hear the octave shifts in your voice.
They interpret the warmth your body left on the writing instrument
they sense the freedom of the blank page
and with the encouragement of your spirit animal
they born the poem
you will them to write
from the scraps of your revealed subway self
especially if it is in
a car manufactured by Bombardier
at the Barre, Vermont factory.