the poetry makers

I think of them as tiny people
that I carry around in the pockets
of my mind
along with lint
rusty paperclips
missing buttons
and small change from a misspent life

they tiptoe through
the disorderly conduct of my thoughts
collecting bits and pieces
of people and places
books and songs
comic strips and movies

things that drifted into
and out of my life
a hastily discarded feeling here
a long-forgotten idea there
possibilities scattered like ashes
in the rubble of my regrets
all shaken, not stirred, with a few missing links
that came from who-knows-where

day in and day out
for over sixty years
the greedy little scavengers
followed my sloppy thoughts around
happily hoarding
whatever I left behind
like tiny little pack rats

somehow they knew I needed them
stuck as I was
at the bottom
of a cracked glass
filled to the brim
with the stuff of exquisite isolation

so, now they clamor for my attention
eager to give me back all those things
lost in life's translation
a word here
a word there
grain after grain of hope
their gift to me
I think I'll call it poetry...

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