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

A match…

 

…And lights a fine Cuban cigar.

 

The sun is shining brightly so

That the white suit he so

Loudly and proudly wears

Gleams–

 

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.