Authenticity
A real poet is a poet
All the time
Not just while writing.
They shower in stanzas
And run errands
Down near the caesura.
Sometimes they love,
But mostly in metaphor.
Anyone who falls for one
Turns into a summer’s day
Or a red red rose
Or a glass queen
On the chessboard
He hides in his heart.
A doctor isn’t a real poet, either.
It’s only when he writes,
White coat hanging on a hook,
Wife picking up the kids from practice.
He isn’t really a husband
Then, nor a father, nor surgeon.
He always has to choose one
At the expense of another—
Equally deserving pieces
Forked by a wily knight.
After an operation
There are a few moments of bliss
When he remembers he is nothing:
Neither poet nor doctor nor king.
He dictates his actions in prose
So there isn’t any confusion
And then the delicate game
Can start all over again.
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