The
Good Poem

A poem by
George Wallace

the good poem cracks its whip at lions which never existed
separates into perfect pieces like a mandarin orange
comes out of a forest like a wave
enters a woman exits a man
passes through a crowd
unfolds like an aria or a ghost
the good poem absorbs the face of heaven
beams stupidly at any stranger
melts like icarus and his wax wings
drops from a tree in october
with the gravity of a leaf
which believes it is the only leaf
to have ever turned that particular color
the good poem studies its scissors and ignores paper dolls
mistakes college for a collage pins itself to its sweetheart's wrist
the good poem falls down drunk and gets up spotless
silences its author denies its parentage swims in circles
shoots bullets into a pool of miraculous carp
the good poem does not count chickens
or separate the shell from the yolk
the good poem cannot be sworn to secrecy
cannot be told to obey the law
cannot stop fidgeting before a judge
obeys its own speed limit
does not know the difference
between truth and facts
insists on honoring the mad
escapes the alphabet
untwists the tongue
makes rude noises at dinner
when the conversation gets too dull
knows the shape of god's eyes
is also the shape of an almond nut
the good poem does not wear red sneakers
or pyjamas made from french silk
there is no church that can hold the good poem down
there is no anthology that can hold the good poem back
there is no crutch that can hold the good poem up
the good poem rises with a cloud of locusts
the good poem strips a cornfield of its puny crop
the good poem does not like to be followed by another good poem
or let the dog eat its homework or fall asleep on the subway
or miss something in the world by falling asleep
or miss something in its dreams by waking up
or twirl a flaming baton or sing for its supper
or lie for money or do a dutchman's dance
the good poem cannot wait to see the next dawn
and track its sun darkly across any sky

Copyright 2006 by George Wallace