Who are you?

As I read your poems—

your beautifully crafted words—

while on this comfortable velvet chair,

eating a fresh French cruller and

making sure none of its sweet glazed crumbs

would stain my expensive tie—

I thought long and hard

about my urge

to take your words

for my own.

 

I am curious, really,

as to what type of person

you are beyond this page.

 

I imagine a lonely silhouette

sitting at a mahogany desk

near a windowsill

admiring a single drop of rain

jumping from one droplet to the other—

like a ricocheting bullet or

a bouncing star in the night sky,

forming a new constellation—

increasing in size as it streamed

down the smooth glass,

as you put out the cigarette

on the ashtray on your desk

to write about your profound observation.

 

The ink on the nib pen,

flowing on the paper

like a merry stream;

the scent of burnt nicotine,

was oddly stimulating as it covered

the dim room with its fog; and the grainy sound

of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata playing

on a vintage phonograph—

the scratching of the needle

on the vinyl record created the authentic atmosphere.

The piano on the record played as it rained

and influenced your wrist’s motion

as you wrote to its melody.

 

I ask you,

poet with no name,

why you have neglected to write—

why you have neglected to grace—this page,

blessed with the lyrics

of your slowly beating heart

and observant eyes, which are openly

aware of the most miniscule idiosyncrasies

which appealed to your curious nature,

with the simple inscription of

your would-be immortalized name.

 

I can only imagine

as Beethoven nears the end

of his fourteenth piano sonata,

with the rapid dancing of his fingers

on the ebony and ivory keys,

as the needle stops scratching the vinyl disc,

you finish reciting your poem

with an unseen smile;

a smile that disappeared as quickly

as you finished whispering

your final words.