Poetry Bullets
By Michelle Garren-Flye

we will start a revolution
under the willow in the park
where you lay with your head in my lap
while I read sonnets and odes and haiku
and you and I store up ammunition
that we fire off in whispered words
to passersby 
(I’m Nobody, who are you?)

maybe they want to be nobodies too?
and walk with us across the bridge
—pausing to listen for Basho’s bullfrog’s splash—
to the woods Frost knows
and Whitman’s untrodden paths
(and our souls rejoice in comrades)

the cars back up on the highway
as we march hand-in-hand-in-hand
singing rhythm and verse
firing off our poetry bullets
until someone comes with a real gun
and the blood runs scarlet like Sandburg said
(dreams go on)

and we wander     lonely
—where are the daffodils, William?—
(and then my heart with pleasure fills)
as we lay dying     maybe we’ll hear at last
    the whistle of the balloon-man
                          echoing
                                                             far       and        wee ee