The Poet
Katey Nicosia

He has just eaten a sandwich,
and a piece of fried haiku siestas
on his bottom lip, iambs hitchhike through
the valleys of his sweater, and he smells
like the smoked lines of a pantoum.

He rises from the table a totem pole,
six feet five inches of solid art. He walks
home typing footprints of trochees.
The sidewalk slips out behind him
a receipt scrolling a tongue
of courier new. People stop to read
his tracks, and children measure their hands
in the dots of his eyes.

After dinner he smokes a joint
of caesura leaves, ashes enjambing
with the bend of every line.
He sleeps on the floor with sheets
of music and often dreams of running
his hands through the hair of syntax
or reaching up the skirt of a blond-haired rhythm.

© Katey Nicosia