Poetry is Friday night.
Poetry is when prose lets its hair down
And begins to enjoy itself.
Poetry is painting the town red.
It’s the glance, the waving hair, the smile.
It’s the beer brimming over the rim of the glass at the bar.
It’s the music that takes you back
With a little sadness too.
Let me tell you what it isn’t.
It isn’t the humdrum or the serious,
The grim look or the worried frown.
It isn’t the reasonable.
It isn’t prose.
It is the head held high,
With eyes on the clouds and the sky.
It is the light step going somewhere,
As daily life with shoulders bent
Casts his eyes down to the ground
And slowly plods on by.