Tuesday afternoon I sit in bookstore
as Pablo stares with his soul
made of words and all
there is in mind/full observations
about life, death, class struggles,
love and the in between
space we fill.
He doesn't approve
of my mocha frappe so different
from the cafes of his times
where he dreamed everyone's coffee
would someday be equally sweetened.
"So what," he says.
"Drink 'til the birds peck
your chocolate eyes,
'til the pigs snort delighted
eating fragments of your heart,
'til the snakes smoothly curl
around the nothing that's left
of you, your imitation living
through pages written by poets
like me who don't care
yet care immensely
when no one sees through
curtains, sheer but thick
enough to hide the truths
That's how he talked to me,
poetic paradoxical riddles, little explosions,
electric vibrations causing intermittent flashes
in my mind.
"Sorry," he says. "My coffee is bitter.
Sometimes that's all you taste when you're dead.
So be alive while you can,
even if there's little ideal."
Once we parted, I decided
even when I write in black,
I'll lace my thoughts in green of hope, like him,
to show admiration by a little imitation.
(According to Wikipedia, Pablo Neruda always used green ink to write his poems.
Submitted to Dverse Poets)