Poets do not isolate themselves in a garret, but walk among us, taking notes about our shared experience. In this week’s poem, David Moreau, a resident of Wayne, explains.

 

Salt to the Brain

(In Praise of Poets)

 

By David Moreau

 

As a rule we are not the brain surgeons

or the bridge builders. We did not figure

how to make water flow in a pipe

or keep airplanes stable in flight.

Instead, we stood in a circle and chanted,

“All praise to the most beautiful bridge,”

then walked across it.

 

As a rule we do not meet the payroll

or keep the factories open.

Others figured how enzymes work

and built hydraulic brakes.

Instead, we were the ones at the machines

whose idea it was to sing, “Happy Birthday,”

or “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.”

 

In this world the moneychangers change money.

The nurses nurse and the lawyers lawyer.

My mother feeds the stray cats that come

to the screen door of her house in Marion Oaks.

The orange tiger has a nasty scratch.

The poets take note,

add this small pinch of salt to the brain,

our gift to the taste of existence.