We sit,
Patient. Listening,
As the salt and peppered head
In front of us talks.
Arms wave, forcing a point.
We nod and try to look awake.
He keeps going,
Looking possessed by the spirit of poetry.
You almost hear,
“The spirit of the poem has me. Lord Have Mercy.”
In the cathedral of poetry
He is the Bishop presiding over the mass.
The fervor starts to strike us,
Slowly we wake up
And we join his church,
Worshipping at the alter of poetry.
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