© 2011 Mary Ann Moore

Fishing for Mermaids, Mining for Light

At the corner of our cafe table,
between our neighbour's steaming soup
and our quesadillas,
our conversation of poets and the like,
Neruda appears,
solid, like homemade bread, pan integral.

Neruda, the Chilean poet
who descended into mines
to read poetry to workers underground,
spent his Nobel prize money
on mermaids and shells,
wrote odes to honour ordinary things.

We talk, as poets, of time we spend listening,
when pen does not breathe on paper,
our observations stored in pitchy cupboards
to be obliged when they are ready.

Rarely see the server, that seems to be okay.
The quesadillas are tasty,
Neruda is near,
as we bemoan the days
when nothing seems to happen.