The Theory that Dreams Serve Poetry
On the train to yet another book launch
The driver makes an announcement
There will be a delay
the wrong kind of poetry is running things
People don’t panic
People don’t pull emergency cords
People are as apathetic as ever
Poetry is a series of delays before
Arriving at meaning.
People pull out magazines, novels, newspapers
All the tumble of words in the lexicon.
I don’t see any books of poetry.
I imagine the men in yellow and orange flap jackets
Attempting to get the right poetry into place
It will take forever or a bit longer.
I decide to sleep as I have made my mind up
That none of this is a dream.
Miraculously on time the train pulls into Central Station
A lame pigeon watches my arrival, winks
As if it knows a secret that I don’t.
There is an elegant half-Armenian woman
Waiting under the grandiose façade
that is either a tomb or an entrance,
she holds a sign which says,
waiting for the right poetry
I keep my head low, walk straight past
No need to get involved.
When the train really does arrive it is late
And no pigeons do wink
There isn’t any sign of a woman or her sign
All is back to normal
Banality has been restored
But the wrong kind of poetry
Is still running things
That much of this
Is still true.