by Paul Hostovsky
I am writing
on the bathroom wall
at the summer writers’ conference
where all of the poets are sitting around
in their little tranquil groups
circle jerking
in my imagination: the blue-
haired lady with her notebook spilling
in her lap, the English teacher with his muscular
sensibility, the diffident housewife, musty
pastor, gay accountant, haiku bicyclist and me
all squirming and sighing with the pleasures
of words
and the spontaneous
overflows
of powerful feeling
emanating
from what we recollect
or maybe
make up as we go along.
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Words on a page/on a bathroom wall, one at a time, like tea leaves/grains of sand, meaningless until someone says: who says?