If poets were like
porn stars what
would it take
to fluff us up,
to get us ready
to perform, place
word after word,
then plunge down
to the next line,
or sometimes just
keep going, over
and over, pushing
forth into the blank
white space of the page,
moaning and moaning,
screaming the beautiful
words of this discerning
art we compose with
heart, mind, and tongue?
With tragedy, loss,
injustice, the many colors
of the morning sky, or
the plain image, that
solitary figure against
the black background
of an evening silhouette
or shadow to move us,
can the industry of poetry
ever really be in peril?
Can a poet ever do
anything but walk
off into the sunset,
glowing over the
landscape, losing it all,
losing it everywhere,
our lives so exquisitely
lovely, so exquisitely
lost?

-Jose Padua

Photograph by Jose Padua