The Whole Night it Was Dark

last night I found out a banjo player was a poet accidentally

when he was outed by a guitarist of the Irish ilk

at the old-time jam in an empty brewery just past a Sex Laden

in Wedding as we were standing in line to get a beer

it is of course embarrassing to be exposed as a poet

when one is just trying to spend the night playing

the banjo because nowadays when someone says

they are a poet they are not a poet

and when one does not say they are a poet they are

inherently a poet and when someone else reveals

the poet-ness of another then it is okay to be labeled poet

who is playing the poet game and so on and so forth

of course instantly after we returned to the circle and sat down

I flapped my mouth and touted my own subscription

to being a poet

in some vain attempt to form a sort of virtual poet bridge

and then I thought of that old axiom of which I often think

he who does not know says, he who says does not know

and spun it with the context of poetry and thus doomed myself

with just the simplest knife-like thought stabbing again

and again and again

until the rear of the train finally caught up with the front of the train

and I forgave myself like some holy priest poet would forgive

a poet in confession on his way to Jericho