the plane of the poet

I tried to reach up
to touch his robe

but
stretch on toes
much as I liked
he was always
a little bit
higher

a one-step
from the storeroom
I made myself
thirty centimetres
taller

but reach as I could
and wave both my hands
he was always
a little bit
higher

the old chair
in the kitchen

I brought it
right under that man
and I clambered on up
but the depth
somehow deceived
and I found he remained
a bit
higher

I placed my one-step
onto the kitchen chair
and I dragged myself
up the first
then again
up on the other

and from this very lofty perch
I surveyed
all around my world
but
I found he was
still
a little bit
higher


© Frank Prem, 2017

Poem #26: a philosophy of the woodpile

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3 thoughts on “the plane of the poet

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