The Poets

The old men sat and listened
My words young – as my bones that carried my tongue
They taught me language, correctness … slipping between some odd vowel combination

The old men cared enough to listen
They disagreed in kind – they reassured kindly
I was still searching for the right beat in the rhyme that I avoided … slipping between some new consonant flow

I was the young and they were the old
I was the new and they were what had never passed
I was beginning and they knew I had never started for I always was
They were the poets and I was the poet.

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