The sky yesterday was so striking: all Carolina blue and loaded with puffy ice cream coulds.
The kind of thing, I thought, that moves poets to write their verse.
I drove to the library to bury my head in the words of great
poets. But the selection of their collection was weak by my standards.
I sat in my truck looking at the sky, staring at a leaf less tree mulling over the fact that what I saw above me had moved me so much.
It's been over a decade since I wrote a decent poem.
Probably half as long since I had the thirst for verse.
By night's end, I had pulled the brown folder out of my desk drawer, the one marked O.P.P. (other people's poetry) and read the words of impassioned men, tired men, lonely men, drunk men.
I started with Berryman (first name John).
Moved on to Simic (first name Charles).
A little Williams (first name Miller),
some Flint (first name Roland),
and Stokesbury (first name Leon).
and I'm seeing things a little differently today.