Poet or Poverty (standard:romance, 333 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Mar 23 2009	Views/Reads: 2905/2	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Money for your thoughts...then back on the streets.

This time I saw a woman in the city, she saw me, and I spoke to her. 
Everywhere else I'd been turned away. I'm in a dark room, drying my 
clothes. I hear conversation; perhaps murmurings would be a better 
description, voices wearied by death, or so it sounds. I cannot 
remember her face very well, nor do I remember much about her except 
the morning's milk that is her skin.  Here I am dressed in rags, and 
she a woman of the world. I'm broke, along with every other homeless 
person. 

At least I'm a poet. But she, too, has nobility I cannot explain. When
asked, is there anything I can do, I explained that I am a visionary. 
She smiled. Another romantic, she replied. I am unknown, I offered. 
Yes, she responded. Yet you brought me here? I said. Yes, I love all 
poets, in love with ideal beauty. Isn't this you, homeless, without 
food, a change of clothing. What else can you be but a poet? 

She made nothing of my face. I could neither tell if she were Liberty or
Muse. All you poets...you love, you hope; that is all. Hold out your 
hand to me, she said, which I did. I was once a poet, too. I wrote down 
my dearest beliefs, my hopes, my feelings, all the things that poets 
do. I lived my youth in an age of hopes and fantasies. Like you, 
touched by the finger of muse. 

From that moment I adored her. The way her hair was pinned to the nape
of her neck, just a few short strands escaping.  I placed one hand on 
my heart, the other I placed in my pocket. I did not say a word. She 
turned from me, not away, her posterior outlined before my eyes.  So it 
was I went into a transport of joy. I left before she returned. Poetry 
is infinitely more acceptable than poverty. She would understand. Have 
you ever been in love?


Tweet