The Way They Talk

by Christopher Jones
I type up my poems at Saint Catherine’s,
they get saved in the computer system there.
I get a kick out of that, I love the idea of it,
that when I’ve gone home my poems remain
hidden in the memory.  My poems can come out
at night and mess around, they’re so free
they can steal flowers, go out dancing all night,
they can wear pants, or not, as mood dictates.
My poems can go out drinking in all of my favorite
bars—well, hell, all of their favorite bars.
They can jump on freight cars in the old
Burlington-Northern train yard, go down
to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras.
My poems can hang out together, do a little bonding.
They can talk to each other, try to make
the angry ones feel a little less pissed off
at life, help the sad ones feel like
their hearts won’t always be broken.

© 2001 Christopher Jones. All rights reserved.