(To Elwyn Roberts, with thanks)
I observed
as you held my words
in a half nelson;
loose-leaf, limp bound,
the manuscript bent double
and folded back
across its spine,
And you read me aloud
frog marching my own
ideas past me,
and for the first time,
I understood what
the rumblings in my soul
sound like;
and the shape my thoughts
take in someone else’s mouth.
Then you put my feelings down
and picked up a sheaf of papers
— all yours; you gave me
a reading of what was
going on in inside your mind.
I heard every word,
looked up to the oak beams
that crossed, re-crossed the ceiling;
they listened intently as well.
Then as they creaked,
your home shifted slightly,
finding a more comfortable
posture in relation
to the wind outside.
You had read me
— and yourself —
before letting me go;
with good luck for a wish
on the shake of a hand …
