The words won't dance.
My tuneless song leaves
them cold.
They stand like wallflowers
in awkward silence.

I cannot create Montale's music.
Bukowski's beat escapes me.
The Ovidian opera is a hopeless dream.
I write down words that have no
dancing shoes.

They are like deaf men at the opera.
Pavorotti has always been dead to them.
But perhaps if they stand in
the wings the beat will
rise from the floor
through their feet
and set them
to tapping.

The words speak to me,
imparting wisdom gained through
years of flying promiscuously from
poet to poet.
Be true to your voice, they say.
Do not twist your words
to the ear of those who
read them. Those who
will hear you will
hear you.