I sat in the circle of writers
who meet weekly
in the Minoru Seniors Centre

and I confessed,
I am a poet
   and
I am lonely
   because

I weave my world
a tapestry of words
I want to show you
the pictures afire
in my head (no photos
I can show guests
on a Sunday afternoon):
pictures of red brick
walls, lines etched
in black and white,
purple-green trees
rooted in the earth's
molten heart, the sun
faraway and faded
as if buried in snow,
the broken horizon torn
from a larger canvas,
the bare branches of alders
like cracks in the air

and I asked,
Who will look?
Who can see?

and one man said,
I like poems that rhyme

and one woman said,
You punctuate wrong

and more said,
What do you mean?
and only Ken said
nothing

and when I explained
how I published my poems
submission rejection
submission sometimes
acceptance poems sent
like an SOS distress
signal to the world

Ken said,
You're lonely
the way
I was lonely;
all my life
I've been a salesman
knocking on doors;
of course you're lonely,
you're a salespoet

so, look for me, folks,
I am everywhere
I am a salespoet
knocking on your doors
            and windows
ringing your bells
            and telephones
echoing in your chimneys
            and air vents
with pitches and promises
you can't ignore:
      don't believe me
      try my poems
      they're good
      satisfaction guaranteed
      or your money back