| The Man Who Writes My Poetry I often wonder what it would be like to meet the man who writes my poetry. There are thousands of questions I want to ask him. So no matter where I am during the length of the day or night I often take the time to stop and look into the faces of all the men around me. I have an idea of what he looks like. I know he has long hair. Be it black, blond, or red his hair is long and fills the air behind him when he rides his motorcycle. I like to think that he is dark. Even if he is white there is a golden brown color in his skin that covers every inch. His eyes are like a woman's--big, shimmering, and sad. His hands like those of a priest who builds houses between masses and confessions. Women and men will all love this man who writes my poetry. His ears are not too red, he wears expensive shoes, and he doesn't laugh after every sentence he says. I know I will find him. One day I will come across a group of women and men gathered around someone and, in the center, I know he will be there. I will push my way through the crowd and, when I see him, I will raise my hand over the hands of the others and say, "Wait, there is something I want to know." Silence will fall over the crowd, all eyes will turn to me as the man who writes my poetry waits for me to speak. |
| duende 2112 Arturo Vasquez II 2000 |