The poem and you

The poem is sitting opposite you, watching while you read it through. Once you raise your eyes from the page, it catches your glance. Takes a sip of its glass of Tempranillo. Lets you think. Then sends you back to the beginning to reread it again in light of the ending.

You draw up some more chairs: one for your memory, one for your dreams, another for your imagination. The poem pours them all a glass of that Tempranillo. They swirl it and sniff. Clink glasses in a silent toast. Start talking among themselves. You even dare to join their conversation.

And that’s when the poem stands up, drains its glass, and quietly leaves. Its job is done.