Geoffrey Long
Tip of the Quill: Archives
30:25 Mike

They found him leaning against the bridge,
staring at the sky and mouthing words,
his eyes flicking back and forth
as if he were watching the gods play tennis.

They swore he was a prophet,
they spread his legend far and wide
and across the country millions followed suit,
beating wide paths to the nearest bridges,
turning faces upward to trace invisible patterns
and make up silent lyrics as they went.

Eventually every single one of them saw it,
although none of them knew if they saw the same thing.
The language escaped them,
as did the motor skills,
but since each one saw what they were looking for,
none of them could be bothered to care.


I like Mike. Only you would do a poem for each day in April. Lovely.

But Katherine is my favorite.

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