POEM
Some pronounce it poim.
Like it has an oy inside it.
The way an oyster
has an oy inside it. The way
all poems ought to have
a little oy veh
and a little oyez! oyez!
inside them.
Others pronounce it po-um.
Like it has an um inside it.
A thoughtful pause.
A caesura. A possum
that got run over,
its esses elided.
Me, I always say pome.
Like an apple of pomme
I want to bite into
because it has an om inside it,
a mystic and sacred
syllable I can't wait to reach
and I have no patience
for all the diphthongs.
"Camus, it's you!" I said running into him in line
at Café Existentialism. To which he responded,
"In an absurd universe one encounters many types of people:
Camus', shrews, and certainly very few
who know why they're here in the first place."
To which I countered, "I'm here for the delicious croissants and lemonade,
which give me the conviction that life is really worth living after all."
And as it was his turn to order, I heard him say,
"Coffee, black, not a pinch of sugar nor a trace of milk.
I'll take it to go, though I have no idea where I'm going. . ."
