by Ann LaBar
When I arrive, my father will ask,
“They pay you for that?”
And I will answer no. Payment
For poetry is rarely legal tender.
It is broken barrettes, non-pareils while
The house burns, calves
In veal pens, and occasionally
Vanity. And who am I to say
This to a man turning 88
Watching turkey vultures in his yard
As he recalls swimming through
The flood waters of ’42,
Past sewage and the dead to get
Home from the mill.
Categories: Sister Sirens
Reblogged this on Lisa Lanser Rose and commented:
Beautiful encapsulation of why writers write.