My Friend is Dead

I met a poet in the post office today.

Our mail boxes were opposite each other.

Our paths had crossed decades earlier.

He asked me what I was up to,

I told him the recent news of loss.

He fumbled in his shoulder bag,

“I have two poems for you- one sad, one joyful.”

On a walk later, two big crows flew in front of me,

one going left, the other going right.

One of those huge poodles strained on its leash towards me,

dragging its owner off course.

And then the wild roses.

The smell of wild roses can lift you right off your feet,

or so it seems.

I stopped, picked up a fallen petal and marveled at it.

How come I had never noticed,

it was softer

than words could ever describe.

A Poet

A poet must be either sad or estatic,

can’t be blase or neutral.

A poet needs to walk around,

not ride in a car.

How else can she get smacked

in the heart,

hit by flying debris.

Strolling on the cold, shadowy side,

trembling is inevitable.

A poet must let go of anchors,

twirl around corners,

come face to face with reality.

A poet follows boredom, ending in the company of angels.

For the good of all,

everyone should write poetry.