On Being Noticed

Monday, January 14, 2019
A student asks if writing is emotional 
in front of his whole school and he is ten 
so I try not to look too easily impressed.
The last ten-year-old who made me cry
in public after reading a poem to the class  
became a smart arse, thinking himself a master
for making the professional poet cry. He learned 
nothing from me, too cocksure of his ability,  
he never revised and failed at everything. 
So I say, carefully, when I write I’m still a boy 
staring at his shy shoes. Last month I watched a man, 
chunks of his arm lost to needles, as he tried 
to make a paper shrine with the leaflets left 
on the outside window sill. All the people 
on the inside of the glass watched his attempt 
to hold something together 
but when the wind collapsed his paper shrine 
he walked away, and some people laughed 
some people shook their heads 
and some people pretended not to notice. 
Monday, January 14, 2019