song of the silent

Reader, how many poems
begin at the base of a long staircase, gazing skyward,
and climb, line by onomatopoetic line,
en painstaking route to the light
at the tippy top,
where they stop to peer over the chestnut rail
and pat themselves on the back,
wide smiles illumining their paradoxical faces?

I knew without a doubt
after tripping this afternoon
on the third step (barefoot, tack)
that I would never produce
such a poem, that my art -
bejeweled, with red lipstick
and measured, high-heeled step -
would snake down
and down and down, past midnight,
to the cold basement of the earth.

Lurking there
might be Shakespeare, alive and bespectacled,
two rims of fatigue clouding his tragic eyes,
feather quill in hand,

or perhaps Frost,
one eyebrow raised, bereft of company,
save a candle flickering -

hell, maybe Donne is down there,
heeding the toll of some distant bell and
blowing out Frost’s candle.

But if I had to guess,
myself not having been,
there lounges a man we’ve never heard of
strumming a guitar, blue jeans askew,
eyes necessarily closed,

the tail of his black lab wagging
at the sound of verse incarnate
galumphing down the steps,
a puff of cigarette smoke foreshadowing
her long, unkempt black hair.