I sit here, listening to poetry
While in the chair next to me
He shuffles and fidgets
Maybe attempting to look like he’s
Taking it all in, ingesting, digesting,
But it’s a presentational farce of boredom.
The poet occasionally glances over
And he seems not insulted, a bit muddled,
As he’s probably used to fidgeters
But not so theatrically.
Meanwhile I sit here, thinking
If you have written much since
The connection was severed,
Since our kingdom was torn asunder,
And you salvaged what was left
Of the bits you built
And tried to amass a new city
On top of the rubble.
Is your kingdom still there?
Is it just as beautiful?
I sit here, while a brook of braided babble
Tumbles through the room
As the tongues of green minds, like fern fronds, lap it up
And next to me he keeps fidgeting
I’m sure he’s wishing he could
Sever this connection, as these are
Not the bricks he builds with.
But I sit here, wondering
How grand your new city is.
Did you keep any of the structures
I built, any of the gardens or statues
Or maybe just the one sidewalk
We strolled upon, surrounded by ink
And quiet and a dusk that says
She loves to create something from nothing
And knowing that our kingdom
Was fragile but everything.