Not that you or I couldn’t have stood

on our feet. For twenty-four hours.

Speaking impassionately.

Sat in a chair. Lain in a bed.

Reading words cast on a ceiling.

Rising, as we could, to the occasion.

Meeting the moment. Pushing back.

As far as a night would take us.

Even if there was noone there

to listen. Take what was said

to heart. Consider making a considerable

donation. Using every part

of speech possible. Verb and noun.

The coveted interjection. Oh or wow.

Watching what no senator had ever done

before. (He spoke for that long! In the well

of the chamber.) Even when it feels

like a Coliseum. And not a Forum

for exchanging ideas and feelings. Pro-

posals for a nation’s country.

A grange or town hall. A square.

Public as a made-up participle.

My neighbor calls Gary’s supposed

soap box. That place in one of his

poems. Where his speaker speaks

for himself. From a rooftop.

A belfry. From anywhere a bird is

likely to hear him. Screeching and cooing.

Making any sound known

to a citizen.

Gary Margolis

Cornwall