This swaggering nebbish, occulted by reticence,
Ambivalent to all save the rare, volant sentence,
Shies from public performance (that feckless adventure),
Declines documentation, yet craves constructive censure.
A reclusive archer, a’quiver his arrow;
The scope of his genius irreducibly narrow.
Standing self-conscious at crossroads of Solitude, Loneliness,
Shrugs off discomfort, fits shaft, sets about business.
Slips after his quarry among shadows city-cut
Obsessed singular vision, a vanquishing insight:
To be ineluctably occupying your memory
To achieve it with words honed away ’til there aren’t too many;
Just enough to lodge splinter-like, begin subtle burrowing.
So he shoot, waits breathless, his own heart hammering.
Will his words be dislodged, though barbed with raw sentiment?
Too dull to pierce through, too few to whisper what he meant?
Archer unnoticed; how can arrows find their mark;
Would you notice, even, if one found your heart?
I’ll stand nearby, and maybe smile to hear you hum
The words of my poem to the beat of another’s drum.
Erik Kaisson, 2017
… and my 200th post.