By Evan Wilson
I’m not so sure that I could live
Without the gifts that poems give,
Without a pause in passive time,
Without the breath of simple rhyme.
I’m not so sure that I’d survive
Without the songs sung then and live,
Without my chirping parakeet,
Without a laugh like bread and meat.
I’m not so sure that I could walk
Without my friends’ slow pensive talk,
Without a hand upon the shoulder,
Without their smile to make me bolder.
I’m not so sure that I’d go on
Without a family to belong,
Without the knowledge of our past,
Without the roots that live and last.
But as it is I have all these
And so much more that to me please.
In fact my days are full and rife
With multitudes to bring me life.
White Noise Zine 