The Stool

Sits under a tree on the boulevard of a busy street. Was lunchtime for one, and a feast to the eyes of this driver’s mind.

The Stool

Set it anywhere
An artist will see it
A musician will hear it call
And the audience will approach
Like the players all walking on stage
Seated prominently talking
The street now calls
To the stool.

Prop of supposition
Launch pad of reason
Rather the wisdom beyond
The easel, the pen of the poet
Invisible space and white of mime
Life shines all around me
Take it or leave it--
The stool.

From here
She catches each color
As it comes from the cotton wood
And a Saturn with plastic sides.
He trumpets the horns of
Smokin’ trucker John
Playing long with
this soul on
A stool.

My subject,
My inspiration
On three legs or four or
One -- steady as the gold leaf diving
Where do we go from here?
The dreams of people
The seeds of trees
A stump or knee
Or stool.