We’re All The Same

He was hardly a poet.

He was a minimalist,

a Zen poet.

One of his poems:

“What?

If.

What if?”

He was everywhere,

open mics,

other readings,

even book signings,

but he never got noticed.

He lived in a huge one room 

quite beautiful actually.

One night, I asked him if he

wanted pizza.

He paused…looked at me,

more pause, and then he said:

“That was delicious!” with a 

big grin on his face.

I’ll never understand Oakies.