wndr poet
I am the poet at the door
I take your word
and add an L
I lie on my belly
sensing all the stifled heartbeats
and stealthy tiptoes
most don’t detect
in the cage of my chest
like elephant language
in a register
too low for normal
while you wander and wonder
I’m glued to my seat
making sights into symbols
wounds into sounds
tapping a button
that slaps a thin metal key
against an inky ribbon
then falls onto a leaf of paper
winnowing your life
to find the dense rich
nutty grains
Tonight I read about the wndr museum in Chicago. When you walk in, you give a single word to one of their resident poets, who then writes you a poem to pick up as you exit.
