STILL COMING OFF THE HIGH of Saturday's poetry reading. Well received. I buried a few ghosts. Cast out a few demons. I was in demand. Alive in the moment. A rock star in my mind. It was a “happening”. That is what Xhabbo told the thirty plus people who had assembled that afternoon. His drum and my old commuter manuscript. Stale wilted words became fresh with the twist of Xhabbo‟s live bongo beat. My words made a sound that I had never heard before. The beat of the drum was like the chug chug of a train. When I spoke the last word of my last poem that afternoon I laid to rest the Train of Thought Commuter. Closure. Close the casket. The viewing is over. Lay the body of work to rest. I moved away from New York in 2003. I derailed on that day. Said „so long” to composing poetry on the commuter train. But the train continued on in my brain. Stalled at the station. How could I write poetry in Florida? Without a train ride. Without a commute? Without a back and forth for inspiration? It took this worker six years of sun and sand to figure out the next step. Six years to solve the riddle.
Make way for the labor poet. Workers of the world unite. Writers of the word unite. Outsider Writers. Labor outside. Grounds Keeper. Sidewalk Sweeper. Dream Sweeper. Work outside. Write outside the mainstream, while I write lunch break words near the marsh stream. Watching the egrets fly by. Regrets no longer get in the way. Regrets fly away. Sharing my lunch break with the birdlife. Sharing space with the wildlife. Reflecting on my wild life. A past life that I have closed the casket on. I now know a better way. I now have control, as I climb out of this hole. Living one glorious work day at a time.
Email this story to a friend, enemy or jilted lover!
Click to open a print friendly version of this pageRead more work by this author
Read more poems tagged with:
Art Creative Non-Fiction
Find more stories by:
Title - Style - Category - Issue
Read more from the current issue
Read more from Issue 24
