At the Sandwich Bar, after the Exhibition

The artist always leaves with the ladder;
The poet goes to listen to the band alone.
We made our own way through
what became yesterday.
I can’t tell you the way to get home –
can’t make a sign you can follow.

We turn off the flash,
taking pictures in the dark,
make a sound the drummer can hear,
make an image out of words.

What I’m drinking tastes like beer,
but what they’re playing still fills the poem.
The poet sleeps inside the poem,
hoping for the first step.

I find myself posting different kinds of poem each time tonight.,,trying something different with each poem. I want to see what I can do in each poem.

The poet sleeps inside the poem,
hoping for the first step.

I like this!

Thanks, Khalida. I write that kind of thing because I am a reader of Wallace Stevens.

Peter

i especially enjoyed the title and the first line.

thoroughly,

Me too, Red. In the background of that first line is my memory of my former spouse breaking down her art exhibits...the sight of her carrying the ladder out last.

Thanks for stopping by,

Peter