The Poet’s Shuffle
--Calvin Forbes (1945- )
They applaud at the periods and sigh
During the commas.
My poems are full of carefully wrought pauses.
I read aloud until they yawn.
Should I growl or stomp my feet –
Maybe let my wrist go limp like a snake
On the edge of the podium?
But manlike I refuse to say another word.
They think I pout, that I’m sensitive,
Similar to a worm who grows again when hurting
Most. And they whisper walking out.
Man their polite smiles can cut!
I hear them say forgive the Negro
For he knows not what to do.
For a sentimental moment, the way Bo Jangles
Used to dance, I lift my big feet
And I do the poet’s shuffle.
And then like Ben Johnson I recite:
My best poem is my son
And to each Shirley Temple I will give one.
But the old ladies in the front row
Will only give me the clap.
Like cannibals well fed they sleep and burp.
And I to my wife or mistress flee.
Calvin Forbes, Blue Monday (Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University
Press, 1974), p.46.
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