When startled in alleyways
by ill will’s ski-masked gaze
a loaded grudge pointed at me
a cutting remark held against my throat
hearing that old scaly subterranean hiss
your equanimity or your life
my dove eyes will smile while
the Pentecost of poetry descends
and I recite the juste mot that comes
from my unleashed trusting tongue
even as Stephen before the pellet of stones.  

When skies expand like Superman
busting out of a telephone booth and
I’m called upon to commentate
elaborate and communicate
the ways and means love conquers hate
I’ll hand the Muse my effusive pen
let her write whatever she likes –
the flight of her writing is actually sighting
and siting the seat of the Sun.