Ever since being named Poet Laureate of the U. P., I've felt like I should be doing something poetic every day. Standing on a street corner, reading Walt Whitman. Picking random names out of the phone book and sending out postcards with poems on them. I have scheduled a few readings and a year-long poetry workshop series, but I'm still finding my footing.
Saint Marty is a laureate without a plan right now.
Eating Poetry
by: Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
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