All poems on this site are written by E. M. Weaver, a current student at Columbia University.
This poem was inspired by a brief exercise in a Modern Poetry class.
When I stop at a poem,
it peers at me through the peephole
and buzzes me upstairs,
where I arrive -
out of breath with a bottle of wine.
We brush kisses on each other’s cheeks
and it takes my coat, ushering me inside
and showing me to the table.
Here, chairs squeezed closetogether,
a rambling Whitman winks at Milton
who blushes into his porridge,
and Dante, one arm around Beatrice’s waist,
argues loudly with Tennyson -
bits of stuffing spewing from his mouth.
Meanwhile, we, the nameless, draw near
with our humble gifts.
- 10/12/08
Advertisement
