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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 Vote for this poem
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