For Geremia

A Terza Rima

I met a man who just the other day
declared he wrote his poetry for me.
“But we have only met…” I tried to say.

He silenced me and said he did agree,
yet still each poem he writes is surely mine.
I asked him to explain that I might see.

He then quote poesy laudable and fine,
so listened I and watched his old eyes tear
while failing hide the shiver in my spine.

“Now, tell me if you will and say it clear,”
The poet challenged me, though gently spoke.
“that you own not what I compelled you hear.”

No answer could I give, my heart was broke,
but he seemed satisfied with my response.
He doubtless saw my eyes and heard me choke.

“You see, I’ve placed a candle in the sconce
to shed some light inside of you, my friend,
but it was you who lit it for the nonce.

I wrote the poem for you to heartache mend,
though never have I known what plagues you most,
then you allowed the poem to stir and rend.

Is this not ownership or do I boast?”
Again I could not speak, but looked anew
at his frail form so pale he seemed a ghost.

The poet’s explanation was quite true.
The poem belongs to me, though I must share.
It seems it were the least that I might do.

And so, grown bold, I risked a selfish dare.
“Might I entreat another, my good man?”
‘Twas then he smiled the first appearing fair.

He took my arm, though his shook like a fan.
The palsy made him seem impaired and old,
but on he led, this agéd artisan
as he quote poesy more than hearts can hold.