An Ode to Billy Collins


If melting butter could be heard,
the sound would be his voice
disolving one word into another.

His wide square temples
like a hat full of wit and whimsy,
crown a deadpan face,
and from the bald face
of his pate, Billy winks
at the now forgotten name
of his poetry muse.

Tufts of hair above his ears
give him wings
to skip above the sidewalk,
grab a leaf from a high branch,
shoot hoops through low clouds.

You might even find him rocking,
legs crossed, at the top
of the ferris wheel
when the carnival is over.

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