I listened as a headless troubadour
Strummed a tune on an acoustic guitar.
A poet, having neither hand, theorized
In verse. She was a hoarse accompaniment
To his twangy plucks, his somber melody.
I was intimate with Universe–twice.
Both times resulted with a child.
One child was the color of salt;
The other, the color of sugar cane.
Universe loved each child equally.
I preferred the sweeter one.
The poet’s verse began when
My child of salt placed me in
A nursing home. My sugary child
Was off spelunking in a foreign land
I do not know how to pronounce.
Universe and I parted ways decades ago.
My salty child had nowhere else
To put me, besides this place
Where the headless troubadour played.
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen