I want to be the poem
             that wakes a madman gently
             from the bad dreams that plagued him,
             shows him the long nightmare
             he suffered through had a point,
             served a purpose now gone and done,
             that the monsters who lived in his head
             were as weak and useless as a spent
             bottle rocket that sputtered and failed.

I want to be the poem
             that causes the scent
             of a young woman to linger
             long after she passes on the street,
             causes her eyes to show just the hint
             of the secret, so she brings a smile
             to every man who sees her
             reflected in the window
             of a Market Street shop
             on a Sunday evening in spring.

I want to be the poem
             that makes America roll over and play dead
             its paws in the air, its belly exposed
             to show submission, to show it knows
             I'm in charge, I dominate it
             the way an alpha male does a pup.

I want to be the poem
             that makes the world safe for poetry
             shows us all a new way
             of meeting what lies beneath,
             shows the young a way forward,
             the old a way out of their circles
             of self, that makes a stranger in a dark
             and smoky bar put down his draft,
             nod his head in wonder and rush out
             into the daylight howling like a wolf
             in a fit of wonder.

I want to be that poem,
             nothing more
             than to be that poem.

Volume 2, Issue 1, 2007