Poetry by Gene Hyde
We hover like an orange and white cloud,
sampling the floral smorgasbord at the resort.
I’m watching this outlier human in the corner,
scribbling verse, taking photos of me and my kin
as he sips his coffee in the poolside shade.
Whiffs of sunscreen and tobacco fill the air
while people sizzle in the sun, as if waiting
for a giant spatula to come from the sky
and flip them. “Over easy, please,” intones
a bronzed one, “keep my yolk intact.”
Minutes before noon the poolside crowd chats
while quaffing cocktails and coffee, and I flutter
by the older poet in the corner, tucked away
from the solar celebration, his homage to Sol
paid years ago. Dozens of my kin feed near him
as he sits in repose in the shade, cane by his side,
pen in hand, a testament to human anachronism.
I swoop down and land on his page, feeling
his joy as he catches his breath, stops writing,
and puts down his pen. The muse take all shapes,
he thinks, and, smiling, starts to write again.
Gene Hyde‘s poetry, essays, and photography have appeared in such publications as Cold Mountain Review, Amethyst Review, Salvation South, Appalachian Journal, San Antonio Review, Shelia-na-Gig Online, Third Wednesday, RavensPerch, and elsewhere. He lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina with his partner and a scruffy little dog.
