4. The Poet Was an Old Man

The Poet Was an Old Man
When he left me for the last time
The poet was an old man
He was free, except for mortality
And that was out of his hands
But his hands, oh, when they reached for me
Held as much of himself as he dared to see
Instead he saw possibility
Women he still could love
If I was a blackbird I’d follow you home
Lie down beside you in your book of poems
Then I’d lift my wings, I would fly from the page
To comfort you in your old age
He forgets for convenience
No regrets, just indifference
His best defense a safe distance
I remember and I’m lonely
But his poems were unmistakable
When he gave me words to sing
I sang better than I can sing
And that’s the thing, the whole thing
If I was a blackbird I’d follow you home
Slip under the covers of your book of poems
Then I’d lift my wings, I’d fly from the page
To comfort you in your old age


And If I was a blackbird I’d follow you home
I’d live forever in your book of poems
I’d lift my wings to fly from the page
And comfort you in your old age