Sage of Poetry
I was walking on the edge of the world
of language, meter, and rhyme
when I met an old man walking too,
as he had been for some time.
His wrinkled skin, pulled twice too tight
from aging twice too slowly,
just made him look that much more wise,
even- dare I?- holy.
I grabbed his arm as he went past
and roughly shook his hand.
I stared into his crinkled eyes.
"Teach me everything you can!"
He gently pried my fingers off
and straightened out his coat,
puffing on an old cigar,
his face shrouded in smoke.
"Poetry ain't easy, kid,
and life's her G-D- mother."
He looked at me with crinkled eyes,
unblinking, through the smother,
then winked at me, saluted once,
and slowly turned around,
leaving me in blank confusion,
staring at the ground.
"That's it?!" I cried into the void
into which he was disappearing.
His words hung in the smoky air,
an echo I keep hearing.