your poet once read a book on how to write poetry.
but it said nothing of sitting on the patio drinking silent wine.
it neglected the part where we make love in the park while hidden onlookers smoke cigarettes.
there was nothing of exploring the forests and climbing trees like a troop of baboons.
playing board games in the middle of our favourite dive bar received no mention.
wandering our neighbourhood streets and viewing every house through mushroom-tinted lenses was left out completely.
he did not find the part about lying in bed until noon telling jokes and touching in between states of consciousness and unconsciousness.
there were a few paragraphs on falling in love through words but nothing about watching that girl in the sundress twirl amongst the fresh produce at the market and yearning to know her name, hold her hand and watch her eat that peach.
he noticed a chapter on rhythm but missed entirely was rooftop beats driven by shots of illicit liquids.
many passages talked about music but none about lying on her worn leather sofa with her cat on his chest while she played one more beautiful sonata before bedtime.
this book was incomplete, it soon became clear. more should be written. there were more verses of poetry to discover.
no page of life was to be left unturned.
