Anna Weaver, The Poet Buys a Townhouse

Anna Weaver

not a poet’s villa with a poet’s garden
planted with moonlight and nightingales

not a cliffside cottage just a short, misty walk
from ocean-crashed rocks that groan with lonely endurance

not an urban-gritty hotel room with rotary phone,
daily rates, and a view of hookers or les barricades

a townhouse, freshly painted
in the beige-est of eggshell ecru
tabula rasa with modern appliances
(out of warranty but serviceable)

and a loony neighbor
on the other side of the party wall

holiday flag flapping hard as her upper arm
waving hello in a technicolor housecoat

and yes, above the townhouse, the moon
moving from one skylight rectangle
to the next, three hops over the living room
and on to gardens and oceans and barricades

“oh,” says the neighbor,
“I’ve never understood poetry,” meaning

I don’t expect to understand you
and so I consign you to the realm of mystery and moonlight.

Author’s Comment: I imagine every poet considers, if only briefly, whether he or she fits the stereotype of Poet. And I’m all but certain anyone who ever said to a new acquaintance, “I’m a poet,” has found it to be something of a conversation stopper. What tickles me is how that reaction is tinged with confession, as though I have the power to absolve them for some sin committed against their 7th grade English teacher. I mean, we don’t seek forgiveness from scientists we meet for not understanding chemistry or biology…

Bio: Raised in Oklahoma, Anna Weaver lives in North Carolina with her two daughters. She reads frequently at Raleigh-area open mics, and her poems have appeared in Star*Line, Referential Magazine, Utter Magazine, and elsewhere


4 thoughts on “Anna Weaver, The Poet Buys a Townhouse

  1. This was such a fun read! When I was teaching it was easier to just say teacher because you do get a look when you say poet 🙂

  2. I love how carefully you wrought the language of this poem. You may as well just say that you write “poultry” because that is the word that comes back to you per the boomerang of normal conversation, “Did you say you write poultry?” Indeed, and without a crow or a feather in my cap

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