Collected

There are names on books

of who edited poems together

by this or that author

the editor sharing a life

that could not possibly

be understood in its entirety

not understood by the readers

who do not breathe

the same air

as the poet walks

in sandals or barefoot

in loafers or heels

The collected dust

on a poet's skin

would show where

the poet walked

but they do not sell

small vials of it

in bookstores

Collected hair

left by balding poets

isn't traded

at the supermarket

Old bills paid

by checks signed

might still exist

but few might collect

Empty bottles or bindles

don't seem to make it

to the auction

The last rays of light

that touched the poet's skin

have been reflected

in light seen or unseen

Exhaled breath

with droplets of moisture

traded to the air

from coursing veins

dissipate among the vegetable stands

on a distant street

in a town unnamed

in every line of poetry

or letter written to a friend

All we have are remnants

of inspiration

that deleted a moment

of awareness of everything

around the poet

long enough

for pen pencil

tapped keys or tapped keyboard

chalk or tip of burnt kindling

to set limited words

spelled in designed letters

of a thousand alphabets

onto something another

might try to comprehend

only to fail

this challenge

of crawling beneath the skin

to live one second

in awe or disgust

of a life for which

we are desperate

Barry G. Wick