Wait, That Was It, That Was the One

I need poetry, he said,
Startling you. Give me something
Good. Point me to a good one.

You got any of your own?
I need something to make me
Feel alive, feel forgiven.

I can’t find any that work.
I don’t know what to look for.
I just want some poetry

That’s beautiful, that makes life
Bearable, y’know? That’s what
It’s supposed to be good for.

And then he started crying.
A poetry fiend. Who knew?
Why couldn’t he find his own?

It’s not like he was asking
For fifty OxyContin.
The world is stuffed with free poems.

Your thoughts raced. Rumi? Rilke?
Whitman, Oliver, Clifton?
One of the Instapoets?

What would make this man happy?
Shakespeare? Burns? Too hard to read.
Li Bai? Sappho? Too oblique.

Don’t be condescending. Don’t
Insult his intelligence.
What’s beautiful, affirming,

Enduring, forgiving, true?
Sacred, not sectarian.
It won’t work, you said. It won’t.

There’s no verse that can save you,
Nothing that I can give you.
You lie, he cried, and ran on.