Poets are kind

Poets are kind, even when
you can’t find your notebook,
even when your voice shakes,
or a cliche slips out or your
whole body cavity is empty nothing,
even when you are late or mumble
through an introduction or adjust
the mic too long or don’t show up that time
or didn’t bring anything to read this week.

Soft eyes will tell you
of their residency in the grand canyon
or the month in verdant light,
the writing studio and the bookshelves,
colorful and cluttered and a couch to
lay on to read
—and kindly they will say that will
be you so soon, your book and your
couch and your light.