(April is National Poetry Month)

They meet in the library
the second Monday every month.
Some have their poems neatly typed
in plastic sheet protectors,
treasuring their poetic treasures,
some in binders,
some in notebooks,
and the little 95 year-old
just has hand-written notes
on yellow pieces of paper.

Literary masterpieces
in the hamlets of… anyplace,
away from the maddening big city,
yearning for stardom in the small city,
such is life,
and then you hope to live.

Hopes strung on laundry cords
flapping in the pale winds
of yearbook pledges,
childhood fancies, and
faded vows.

Then the shadows catch up
and the Tiffany world
has become
a K-Mart
layaway
until
the blue light
flickers off
and they shut the door
to poetry.


Copyright © 2002 by Andrew Rafalski