Friday, September 9, 2016

“Eric, call me” by John Reinhart

“Eric, call me”

posted on the corner of Jewell
and Federal, a last ditch hope –
the first note of a symphony
written in tandem –
a reminder that people still
care –

call me, Eric, before the rain
destroys the sign, dissolves
the glue on the tape, or
someone tears it down
to write their own desperation
to wave at passing cars –
“Anything helps”

even a phone call

John Reinhart

Poet's Notes:  Sometimes I sit with my open notebook at 4:34am scratching some spiny underbelly hoping the demon will spit something onto the page. While working on the floor in a corner of a poorly lit kitchen praying the dog doesn't wake my children or my wife, sipping coffee and nibbling leftover crusts from the dishes that didn't fit in the dishwasher the night before might sound romantic, it is not always conducive to creative genius.

Sometimes the best poem is the one someone else writes for you. It helps if they post it somewhere in giant letters so that you can see it while you drive by, so you don't even have to go out of your way to find the words (the one in neon last night was particularly effective, btw). I like to write while driving, which is not yet criminal, though I'm careful - no, officer, I'm ok. The notebook? It's just in case I am stranded somewhere and need something to make a fire. The pen? It's merely for propping open the air filter when the car dies. But I keep them handy because you never know when the signs will come.

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