Mark Twain enters my mind,
Takes a seat, and
I become his front porch.
For a man with such great potential
Of explosive wit and verbiage–
He says nothing as he strikes
…And lights a fine Cuban cigar.
The sun is shining brightly so
That the white suit he so
Loudly and proudly wears
I want so desperately to ask
Why he wears such white suits,
But alas– I’m simply an observer,
I feel stiff as a board.
He sits in his rocking chair,
Gently puffing on his stogie.
A cat screams from misplaced tail
And ten years take flight from this
Famous old man.
Every so often, he’ll crack a smile–
Even laugh unto himself–
How many more stories race about
Under those white curls he did not
Want to tell?
His brow furrows as he focuses
To take in a particular scene
Within his line of sight.
What he sees I can’t distinguish,
But he sits back with a chuckle and
A certain satisfied delight.
He gets up, paces back and forth a while,
Then decides to take a walk about town,
What a privilege it’s been to see
Mark Twain smile,
To have my favorite author come in
To my mind and sit down.