Then I remember America's poets.
We have this thing, America's poets do.
Maya taught me that. We share it.
She read Edgar Allan Poe and called him EAP (rhymes with creep).
Maya told me, see?
After the first line of hers I ever read, she was Maya, Emily, Sylvia,
Langston, and Emerson (Ralph or Waldo he is not).
Hank Thoreau called him Nature Loving Wally, Boston's original Green Monster.
First names. Nicknames. Instant friends. Kindred spirits.
A poet knows a poet the same way we know poetry; we let ourselves.
We surrender to what we are: The rhythm called life.
We are not Hallmark Cards. We are tougher than adamantium steel.
We stay the tide.
We steady our ride.
We write the day.
A warrior poet?
Is there any other kind?