No.17

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This swaggering nebbish, occulted by reticence,

Ambivalent of all save the rare volant sentence,

Shies from public performance, such feckless adventure,

Declines documentation, crave constructive censure.

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A reclusive archer, then, a’quiver this singular arrow;

The scope of his genius, then, if any, irreducibly narrow.

Standing self-conscious at crossroads; Solitude, Loneliness,

Shrugs off discomfort, fits his shaft, sets about business.

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Slips after his quarry among shadows city-cut by daylight

Obsessed by a singularity of vision, a vanquishing insight:

To be the one ineluctably occupying your memory

Achieved by honing words (until there aren’t too many);

Just enough to lodge splinter-like, begin subtle burrowing.

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He shoot, then waits breathless, his own heart hammering.

Will his words be dislodged, though barbed with raw sentiment,

Too dull to pierce, or too few to whisper what he meant?

If archers pass unnoticed; how can arrows find their mark;

Would you even notice if one found your heart?

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I’ll stand quiet across from you, maybe smile when you hum

The words of my poem to the beat of another’s drum.

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No.17

Erik Kaisson, 2017

… and my 200th post.