the poem-writer fully empowered

to Neruda it means one thing,

to me it means something else,

to the guy across the street who

mows half-an-inch of snow from his yard,

who is not a poem-writer, it’s meaningless.

so there you have it.

at this moment in time the world is populated by

the poems of Pablo Neruda, me, and the poetry

of the lunatic across the street.

must say, though,–– he’s got a nice little 

sheet of snow working for himself over there.