Poetry not prose, Monsieur Jourdain! Friday Night

Friday night

Poetry is Friday night.

Poetry is when language lets her hair down

And begins to enjoy herself.

It’s the glance, the waving hair, the smile.

It’s the beer brimming over at the bar.

It’s the music that takes you back.

It is not the humdrum,

It is not the day to day,

Or the grim look or the worried frown.

It is nobody’s servant.

It is not the reasonable,

It is not prose.

Poetry is the head held high,

The look up at the moving sky,

The light step going somewhere,

As daily life with shoulders bent and greying hair,

With eyes cast down upon the ground,

Plods on slowly by.