what grand abstraction
lies behind your words,
word weaver extraordinaire?
I see only a concrete grid,
a stenciled number, and glass bulb tears
some evidence of your years--tire tread trails, a pothole here and there
a worn fence to keep intruders at bay
but no cars resting
is that why you weep?
does being alone
with your number take its toll?
if I stroll your pages,
will the answer be revealed?
or will I yet be wandering
on an empty asphalt plain
trying vainly to gain, access
to some invisible door?
could you not have named your tale
with more banal words?
could the hero not have been
a John Doe sweeping the weeping lot
or a Mary Doe painting a happy ending?
was not to be,
I see, for
when I begin to absorb the light
of your pages,
I forget the tome’s beguiling name
and what the crying lot once had to say