he wrote it and he called it a poem
he wrote a poem about the things he sees
the hair of the person sitting before
the toes of the shoes of the person sitting behind
both black and with its own particular shine
the black cat crouched beneath the rose-bush the cat running from the sound of his voice
the green of the leaf the red of the single blossom
the green of the tag at the black cat's neck the sound of the tag in the collar as the cat runs
the black of the laptop of the person sitting beside
the gentle black of his suit the cut of the suit
the black of his hair the black of his turban
the smell of the green leaf the scent of the red blossom
the feeling in his ears as he walks into the silence of the small backyard
for there is a feeling that is a special feeling
apart from the silence itself
and if he could get at that feeling why
he would write a poem
and the sky would weep
and the tears would be joy
and that black cat would wish it had stayed indoors
(...nearly a poem)
9.vi.99
