by Ed Werstein
Is the dictionary an ocean of words?
Do images in still ponds float
on the surface for poets
to reflect upon? Do poets row
to the middle of a quiet lake
and muse there, dropping line
after line into the water
hoping to catch a big one?
Are there poem markets somewhere
with poems lying about on tables
of ice waiting to be bought?
And if you found a beauty there,
would you ask for its title
to be cut off because you don’t like titles
staring back at you while you read?
Ed Werstein, Milwaukee, a regional VP of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, was 60 before his muse awoke and dragged herself out of bed. His poetry has appeared in Verse Wisconsin, Blue Collar Review, Gyroscope Review, and several others. His chapbook, Who Are We Then?, was published by Partisan Press.