Poetry is not dead
It has not been seen in silk-lined coffins
or seen in the ICU gasping for final breaths
not in the ER with a concussion or a severed artery
or in the alley, left unconscious by a stockbroker's
well-placed punch or a drunk's misplaced anger
It does not whimper in shadowed corners
or cry for help from distracted strangers
It does not beg for bread or soup or debate or alms
but it might break into song
in an unexpected moment
It does not care for currency
or validation from upturned noses
or retreat to dusty shelves of libraries
turned into museums instead of concert halls
It appreciates silent thought and quiet philosophies
offered by open hands flowering with kindness
not closed minds full of gray unpenetrable fog
It does not dress for dinner or pay heed to idle gossip
the latest celebrity's faux pas or felony or who disappeared last week
It won't pay their bail or represent them in a court of irrelevant peers
It is not a smiling anchor reciting untold horrors
bright teeth gleaming madly at disastrous headlines
One may find it at water's edge
eagerly anticipating a child's homemade boat to sail
or the first smooth stone they've ever skipped
laughing as it makes ripples in warm currents
concentric circles to travel around an eventual world
yet it may hum slow jazz rhythms snapping fingers
as the world's pulse begins anew with rising light
Poetry is not dead
It is only waiting
