Of a beautiful
poem. It seemed to be singing
Itself in
the night, and he woke
In a bed in a room in an old hotel
And lay there,
hearing the song go on
Though he
could see the shape
Of his empty shirt on the straight chair
And his empty
shoes on the patch of carpet
Made
light, half by the moon
And half by the gray beginning
Of dawn. He
could see the silhouette
Of his own
hand against the window shade
Like a flower, open and waiting. He smiled
At the
foolishness of loving his own poem
In his own
dream, of accepting praise
From his own shadow. But his mind's eye
Kept seeing that
poem and his real ear
Kept
hearing that same song. It came from the street
Under his window, and before he knew why,
He was out of
bed and shivering his way
Into what
were some of his clothes
And one of his shoes and stumbling
Into the hall
and down the unlighted stairs
And
through the lobby (where the clerk was dreaming
Something else), through the stubbornly locked door
And along the
sidewalk to the curb where the singer
Was
sweeping trash and leaves along the gutter
With his slow broom, who now stopped, his mouth
Open to gape at
an apparition
Holding a
scrap of paper up to his face
And begging him to read aloud. The sweeper whispered
He couldn't
read. And Lorca took him
Into his
arms and kissed him and kissed
The morning air, now stirring what was left
Of the leaves
overhead, and went limping back
Through a
door that stood wide open
And a grand lobby and up the stairs into bed
To lie there
stark awake as sleeplessly
As a poet
who'd been told he was immortal.
David Wagoner made the selections for The Best American Poetry 2009.
