I seem to have spent most of my life
Writing poems that nobody else wants to read,
Poems that end up as crumpled pieces of paper
On dusty desk tops in spare rooms of apartments
That nobody can see from the street.

Outside, the people that I write about,
The people I have always wanted to meet,
Walk, matter of fact, to the train stations
And the bus stops, the newsstands and the coffee shops,
The offices of skyscrapers, restaurants, movie theatres,
Parks where lovers steal kisses on the benches.

I, who never seem quite able to shake someone's hand,
To say something remarkable out loud,
Imagine the things they say to each other
And write them all down on little pieces of paper,
In all the myriad, brilliant colors of words,
Printed out in clear, bold print,
In the eloquent language of poets,
And paper the window with them,
One beside the other
Until the scenes in the panes of glass are gone
And the people in the outside world
Disappear.

Of course, nobody down there notices.
They don't see any of my silent messages.
The doorbell downstairs does not ring.
The mailbox is empty of letters.

In the dark, I turn on a light.
The light lights up my desk,
And all the blank, white pieces of paper
Yet to be composed into forgotten poems.