I am just an image
Of a poet, a holographic
Representation of how you
Imagine a poet to appear.
Where’s my tweed jacket
With the elbow patches?
My faded jeans and trendy
Black T-shirt? My afro pick?
(Oh, it’s nestled in my hair.)
And where, for the blood of god,
Is my notebook? You know,
The black and white one
That resembles a cow’s coat.
Do not be afraid to approach me;
I am only a hologram, after all.
Reach out, put your hand through me,
Right here. *pounds chest with fist*
Now, tell me, is this what a poet
Supposed to feel like? Empty,
Save for the faint stirring of air?
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen
*Note: This poem was written yesterday, February 1, 2013.