The old man
Is fragile but not as fragile as his words
The warm lights reflect off his cold skin
As he stand before this room full of lost souls looking for redemption
His words mirroring those in print clutched by his delicate hands
That have not been used in the fields
Have not been been covered in dirt
Have not clutched hammer and nails
Have not been soaked in blood and sweat
Have not held a bottle like it were his only child
But the audience looks on with solid intent
Taking from his words what they will
His art that is recognized by the state is no more an art than the fucking sitcoms
The audience claps on time
The starving poet looking on from the back
He knows
He knows that the whore hooking in the streets, the drunk in the gutter, the abused children and spouse
This is the true poetry