the poet the world is waiting for

he writes poems as if the auditorium's sold-out;

as if the boys in Stockholm are waiting on his arrival,

and if he's running late, they’ll wait some more.

the poet the world is waiting for is lurking in the wings,

checking-out the women in attendance.

they think he's younger than he is, a lot younger.––

still younger.–– younger, still.

this is the position in which the poet the world is waiting for

finds himself. so you see, it’s better this way;

better that he doesn't show-up hanging a false face.

his poems are scattered among the clouds, the real clouds, but

if they're languishing in the doldrums of inconsequentiality,

they're simply preparing for the day when the articles of

consequence are rewritten.

then he'll show-up with his goods, and the women in attendance

will swoon, and they won't give a damn that he's

as old as he looks, or older,–– or older, still.

and that’s the way the poet the world is waiting for

begins to write his poems, you know. . . as if.