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SultryRose's Signatures





Saturday night at Bailey's Pub,
we talk about Sunday morning church-
Deanna, Rich and I.
Seth says, "Hey, tell God I said hi."
Deanna replies, "Tell him yourself.
Just talk to him. He'll listen."

Seth surprises us,
folds his hands in prayer,
opens his mouth and as I
notice his pierced tongue,
he glances toward Heaven.
"Dear God, are you listening?
It's me, Margaret."

Then he recites an impromptu poem.
He shines as he talks,
goes to another place where
nobody can reach him.
With his eyes dreamy and distant,
poetry becomes his church.

Although he is being funny,
his talent glimmers.
I said, "Seth, you are amazing."
Belly full of whiskey,
he recites poem after poem,
his own and Edna St Vincent's,
hip-hop and fresh, funny and dark-
and we sit entranced on barstools
listen to his voice
spin us through the night.

Rich whispered, "Seth,
you've been coming here three years.
I never knew you were a poet."
Quietly, Seth says, "You never asked."
Everyone assumes Seth is-
just another laborer,
a tough hardened man.

But him and I talk
about poetry, literature, art.
He extends an invitation
for us to visit his place,
come see his Daddy's paintings
and read poetry out loud,
his and mine.

He toasts me with his beer,
eyes glazed, poetry in his head-
and he drinks in silence,
but this stranger is
no stranger to me now,
only a friend I hadn't met.

At closing time,
he exits his barstool stage
and sweeps me off mine
in a zealous hug.
I whisper, "Keep it alive."
"Nah," he smiles sadly.
"I've lost my muse.
I pour concrete all day,
come home to my woman,
go to bed every night
at half-past eight...
Write about tonight,
but don't take away my words,
know what I mean?"

I knew exactly what he meant,
and I nodded my head
as he stumbled out the swinging doors
into the glow of the streetlight,
just another lonely poet
making his way home.



Lori Beal

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