The Poet
Beyond category
The first time I saw him,
He appeared like an apparition,
Floating through the parking lot.
Mythological, untouchable.
His limbs like paintbrushes,
His board, a puppet on invisible strings.
He invited me to join him in a jam session.
He carried me in his rhythmic intensity.
I felt his radiation.
The second time I saw him,
He carved a maze through concrete,
And dared me to follow him.
I took to the path resolutely.
Whenever I lost the trail,
He would reappear and impel me onward.
I felt privileged to dance in his wake,
To study his choreography,
To train in his corner.
The third time I saw him,
The weather changed.
New pedestals were erected.
He mocked the passing storm with indifference.
He tuned down so low—no one could follow.
When others became frustrated and confused,
I paid close attention.
I knew I was in the presence of a genius.
The fourth time I saw him,
We became friends.
He opened his world to me,
And let me hang out where no one could belong.
He lived on the edge of everything,
Beyond category,
Inspiring me daily,
Writing the future with each breath.
The fifth time I saw him,
We were both survivors of something.
He was gracious to my wife and daughter,
But his eyes were still wild.
We stood together in some new arena
And I thanked him.
I thanked him for what was,
I thanked him for what is,
I thanked him for what will be.
He is the poet who wrote our masterpiece.