Oh, National Poetry Month...

.
…I’ve found your poster boy.
This week I began a middle school residency, slinging a poem or two toward the impressionable young’uns, hoping to make a dent. Along with poets Roger Bonair-Agard and Fish Vargas, we bounced between 7th grade (delightful) and 8th grade (mega-surly) classrooms. At the end of the day, I headed for my car with Roger, a stellar wordsmith and, shall we say, manly man. He’s pumped, ripped, cut, tattooed, and he’s got a sweeeet Trinidadian accent to top things off. I have to keep reminding myself that he can write.
Fish is manfully manly also. You need to know this.
Rockin’ that off-kilter swagger typical of the nearly four-footer, a young man fell into step beside us. Wearing 7th grade like loud cologne, he beamed at Roger and said, “You inspired me a lot today.”
How cute. It had been a demanding day, and this lil’ darling was about to make it all worthwhile. Or so I thought.

Unfortunately, his mouth kept moving. And the moving mouth said: “Yeah, I figured girls were supposed to do poetry, but today I saw two boys do it, so I guess it’s OK.”
Suppressing the urge to strangle the wee whippet—you know, laws and all—I hissed, “And they were big boys, right?”
Roger’s inked and bulging biceps and Fish’s massive chest wall—and the rapt attention the girls paid to their each and every word--had done more to inspire the lad than any poem that day. He bobbed his head excitedly, agreeing with all of his heart. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”
I want this kid’s charming little kisser on National Poetry Month posters tacked to every available telephone pole and supermarket corkboard. This is the true face of poetry--a creative child at the crossroads, a young man who suddenly realizes that he doesn’t have to invest in wingtips or a pocket protector to put beautiful words into neat little rows.
Before, I’d only heard the rumor—but now I had actually witnessed the exact moment when a prepubescent playa grasps the true power of poetry. Yeah, it can change stuff. Yeah, maybe it can even heal. But wait a minute--oh, hell yeah. Girls.