The Napkin Poem

I was in disguise among the others,
Wearing this girl’s hair, her skin.
But my eyes were my own and I kept those cast down.

If they saw my eyes they would know.
I was among artists, musicians, and poets.
I dabbled, but I didn’t want them to know,
I didn’t want to share my juvenile thoughts and words.

Only two knew what I really was.

He caught my eye and saw my stricken gaze.
Don’t tell them what I am.
And he didn’t.
He kept my secret with a sort of understanding.

And my mother knew.
She knew and silently urged me to read,
In that parental way she has.

I sat in the back in envious silence
And listened to words,
That created pictures and emotions.

I never feel so alive as when
I’m listening to poetry.
Reading it,
My fingers absorb the words.
The ink and pencil replacing
Blood in my veins and arteries.

I could sit and listen,
The tones, the inflections, the gestures
Of the poem that has taken on
A welcome body of its own.

And when I speak poetry,
It tastes sweet on my tongue like a pear.

I’m afraid I’ll give myself away,
I’ll glow or exhale words.
My motions will give me away as … A poet.