A Poet Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

A poet, man of pen
Has feelings, not much gain
Must find way.

Either goes and drinks with drugs
In that mood he shouts loud “F…the world”
Or goes out, looks for job
Bossed around.

I drive…carry the passengers in my car
And find them too lovely
Of many backgrounds, countries…

“Country? ” I ask one and go on:
“These borders, short in words
or taller like the walls…are bullshit
and so are the nations, divided…”

My voice sounds like flame
It licks lives, in all ways
Brings death to calmness:
“I am thief, out of need, ”
I have him look to side:
“See taxi? I steal…it’s his right.”
Therefore I, explain:
“Uber is outsider, virtual with much gain…
I drive like a hound, serving them by cheating the others
The taxi drivers …but happy I am of, inspire
Everyone who climbs in my car
Of Europe or elsewhere
Says something to be liked…I take notes
Then I write…inspired.”

“I am thief and feel bad
I work and feel proud
I wonder, and I write…”

After pause:

“The poets, men of pen
Have feelings and do sense
Most are poor; if caring for people…”
I shut up and stop…