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vigil for her who is lost


I’ve lost a poem, have you seen her?
she’s not very tall, perhaps 5 or 6 stanzas high;
metaphors cling loosely to her like rags.
I’m not sure if she’s applying make-up now,
and her hair is probably a mess.

I didn’t have time to teach her proper values,
but she knows a lot about sex
and nothing at all about love;
or else she certainly has misconceptions of it.
and of course, that’s my fault.

my fear is that she’ll run to the bad part of town.
she’ll be drawn to the loud music,
the garish neon & nefarious, smoky air.
she knows the fallen angels & the whores in my lurid
tales; they may have told her unsavory things.

she’s a rebel, wayward as the wind,
full of lust for raw living, but unaware.
if she’s taken by slick approaches & motel rooms,
she might end up in a dirty paperback. how
mournful & unjust: prostituting herself for publication.

I wonder if Whitman or Sandburg ever had such a problem,
letting loose their poems, to grow up the hard way;
mean streets & tangled sheets.  it’s crazy for me
to worry, I suppose, as if she were mine to possess.
she’s out there with her secrets: the secrets of a poem.

that spirit,  that spirit of fire in her  –
it will call to you silently…



Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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