THE POETIC ONE

THE POETIC ONE

Friend, there was silver in the sculpture of your face,
And there was marble where you sat upon your throne.

You sat and scanned the daily news, the mall crowds
And the lemmings.

And friend, there was mystery in the fade of your jeans,
The way you held yourself and your silent walk,
The way you scowled when I asked what’s up,
Or made a bad pun, in desperate attempts at poesy.

I thought I knew you oh so very well.
I thought I felt your hand in mine
And that you knew a secret
I thought I’d kept so cunningly.

A secret that was lost on you, so deep and cavernous

From the first time that I saw you, I thought you the poetic one
And searched my mind to find the words to weave a web around us.

And soon I found our ideal ones with sculpted face
and silver thrones,
Can terrify and drive away and make us hold our hasty tongues.

And oh my sweet Thoreau, I could have shown you a way
Unknown to USA Today,
And whispered a whole teeming host
Of feelings that were lost on the Washington Post.

I could have told you strange news,
That would have knocked you off your jogging shoes
And immobilized your sweats.

News that would have pained and panicked you
That would have shattered dreams,
News that would have ransomed trust.

From the first time that I saw you, I thought you the poetic one
And searched my mind to try to find the words to weave a web around us.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this poem for a guy I knew back in college. He was a very "artsy" English major sort, but he seemed almost sexless in a way, sort of an "untouchable". I've changed a line or two in it and made some revisions, but basically it's just one of those pining after someone you can't have type of poems.