Is reading these words,
Everything else will
Begin to blur
The time of day,
Wrong or okay,
Whether to go
Or sit and stay.
Problems with work,
Or dealing with jerks,
From that it's distracted
While this poem's enacted.
The words are winding
Through that brain
In the wrinkled parts
They will remain
This poem is there now,
It won't go.
There's more there now
Than a second ago
Couldn't that brain
Be doing more
Than reading words
From the Doorway Door?
No, it couldn't.
This is what
The brain decided
To scan and store.
The world beneath
That brain still spins,
And maybe that brain
Will read this again.
Or maybe not!
This poem forgot,
That brain will
Think about cats a lot
Or chicken-fried-steak,
Or the planet Mars,
Or the private lives
Of movie stars
Right and wrong,
Or a catchy song,
Hello brain!
Keep reading along.
Or stop! It turned
Or clicked away,
How will it read
What I have to say?
Now I'm alone.
An unread poem
My reader is gone.
This has gone all wrong.
But wait a second,
It must be there.
What else could read these words?
Thin air?
Oh there you are!
The brain has returned.
I'm glad you're still reading.
So what have we learned?
One brain exists.
This much we know.
And a pair of eyes—
Can you read this slow?
And now. I've slowed.
The reader. Down.
This punctuation.
Starts, to; clown,
Around with the speed
In which you read.
They dictate the speed
With which you proceed.
Thank you for stopping
By today.
I hope that brain
Will come again.
I hope these words
Meet or exceed
Your expectations
Satisfactorily.
The Doorway Door
Is beginning to close
Come back again.
(I'll write you some more.)
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