I’d like to walk into rooms
and read poetry to people.
Not to have them wonder about me
or think I’m something I’m not.
But to have them feel something
other than the despair of the moment
other than the frustration of having to answer the question before them.
It fills me up.
Like a weak battery recharging
like the first deep breathing on a Spring walk through the yard
like a quenching drink.
and makes me feel whole again;
like I’m a part of something.
Something bigger than me
something I just shared with someone else
who sat in a room
close to a window
writing the words the wind brought in.
This room could use that same breeze.