Chanda has been telling
her teachers at the pre-K
that her father is a poet.
Even in the poetry class I teach
I never dare call myself that.
Instead, I tell students I dabble
In writing. Maybe scribble
a line or two. If lucky, churn
out a couplet here and there.
There are more important tasks.
Perform open heart surgery.
Find a cure for cancer.
End world hunger. Stop war.
Reverse climate change.
Build a spaceship to other galaxies.
Still, before astronauts,
scientists, and doctors,
there’s the child who dreams.
Poetry is dreaming children
playing in muggy summer nights
of baked earth,
Soft muddy dirt and
cold brilliant stars.
We light up like fireflies.
