— Christine Richardson
Poets are everywhere.
Today I saw one at the bus stop.
He stood close to the route map
as he traced with his finger
where he was about to go.
Another poured me a glass of wine
at the restaurant bar.
Whenever she sees another
bartender use the last of the wine
from one bottle and top it off
with some from the next,
she thinks, no, don’t mix the stale
with the new. Give them something
And the poet on the radio
had just been released from
prison. Some of the women
she met there had become the family
she never had – sisters, a mother.
Now that she was out and tasting
the world, some things for the first time,
she took as her responsibility
to write them frequently.
They were in for life.
She told them of her first visit to
a Starbucks and the day she spent
at the beach. And they wrote back:
tell us, What did the sky look like?
How did the water feel?
And what about the sand?