a great poem begins when the reader
(OK me) elbows past the poet
and enters the story through a side door
as a muted observer I slowly edge
through the crowd bite my tongue
seeing several unusual twists hold a gasp
at one sterling plot turn nod my head
at the courage and colors of the characters
and when I can’t hold it together anymore
I break the cardinal rule of just breathing
and following patiently along
rise up on my tiptoes and start whooping it up
a few lines before the final syllable
runs the table on a standing ovation
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