Poetry houses poems, most of which enclose poets in handmade
or AI-assisted baskets, woven of gristle, spit, and sinew,
so their own name be known and they exalted,
unless busted for narcissism;
While at their best, poems defy gravity to make airy cars
that carry readers through ages of humanity’s lonely flight
from dank, dark, damp caves and bookless nooks,
through the pages of time, our master.
So, since time waits for none of us, do hop aboard,
whatever age, size, color – whether alone, or adored.
Dave Read