I really didn't know how to truly express my gratitude adequately, and then I thought, "You're a poet, you idiot. Say it with a poem."
Therefore, tonight, Saint Marty has a poem of thanks for all his friends and family.
The
Perfect Poem
by: Martin Achatz
I
dream I write the perfect poem,
See
it before me, read the words
In
a coffee house, before a crowd
Of
movie stars, writers, saints.
John
Wayne, front and center,
Looks
confused but moved,
The
way he appeared when he won
His
Oscar, stammering like a schoolboy
Asking
for a slow dance.
I
read. They listen.
Dante
sits next to Duke, clothes
Still
suffused with faint sulfur.
The
great poet glows as I speak,
As
if he has finally found
Beatrice,
touched the face of love.
I
read. They listen.
In
his mitre, Saint Isidore,
Patron
of the Internet, floats
Between
open bar and snack table,
iPhone
in hand, blogs, tweets
About
my poem to his heavenly
Followers: seraphs, cherubs, martyrs,
Some
rebel demons, the Big Three.
Father. Son.
Holy Ghost.
Princess
Di shares couch, spumante
With
Anne Boleyn. Wordsworth sniffs
A
vase of daffodils. They all listen
To
my perfect poem. Three pages long.
Lines
fall like maple leaves
In
October, grace, color, drift, plunge.
Image
as pure as penguin down,
Full
of snow, sun, glacier, ocean.
When
I finish, the room rises
In
ovation, air a riot of rose petals.
I
keep my eyes on the pages,
Commit
syllables to memory.
When
I wake, I grab pen, journal,
Scribble
ten minutes, transcribe perfection.
This
morning, I read what I have written:
Thank
you. Thank you. Thank you.
Thank
you. Thank you. Thank you.
Pages
and pages and pages.
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