A poet

He waved those broken 
Words in the air, word by 
Word, like how an old fighter would dream 
Of his fighting days
(He scrapped those ferric 
Rust away—peeling
Them off the sword—like a maid would 
For an orange). 
He did not dare to call himself one
(What a lonely name for an isolated man?)
But he's called himself many other names:
A keeper (of diaries, day by day, he wrote one
Date after another—he used to
Open the gate
When he was younger—but, no, 
Not anymore), a watcher (of
This damned world, excluding
And including his cursed existence—
He's such a creature of confusion), a
Wanderer—he used to stroll
Down the street, with his hair
Claiming anarchy in the wind, his torso
Pale and weak (week after week), his
Eyes examining flowers and trees like
A chess player—who'd pretend
To be apathetic after a
Very wrong move (those
Eyes—surreal)
—And a catatonic.

Dale Chou
2001-07-10