Garamond and Poetry

Garamond walks in a grey suit: oiled hair, neatly parted
Its 40 year old alphabet - sofa seated on the blank vastness of a restless cursor
Garamond doesn’t ever scream poetry. Neither does poetry ever scream Garamond.
I suspect them both in a live-in relationship.
When night seeps into the crevices of Poetry, Garamond embraces it gently, drinks it.
If Poetry needs to weep, Garamond takes her in his brawny arms.
When Poetry is tired after a hard day’s work, Garamond wraps around her like a capitulated lover.
Often times, sentences stick like a stain on the page
And Poetry has a hard time scrubbing them off her skin, like unwanted moles
Garamond erases them like wine spilling into the glass of a crimson evening
Poetry also loathes punctuation. “Speed breakers on my highway!” she screams.
Garamond plants, on her liquid sentences, like an undiscovered scent of jasmine
Gifts; for a nose ring when Poetry dresses up for a reading and --
Garamond takes Poetry out for a spin in his Cadillac, once they have finished
brimming with rivers on page.
Garamond offers champagne, celebrates the evening with Poetry by the lakeside.
When Poetry & Garamond, return home -- Garamond kisses her neck
Asks her to melt again on the page of a bed.
Poetry acquiesces. Yields to Garamond’s soft kiss.
Garamond & Poetry sit overlooking the valley from the threshold of a conjoined dream,
Watching neonatal words comparing alphabetical genes.
They realize, as do we,
Words have half of both --
high cheekbones of Garamond and the nimble gait of Poetry.
Both watch as words sprawl across every inch of this confabulated planet.
Garamond & Poetry have a long way to go
Until the last word sees the light of day.