The Literary Circle In Which I Travel

All my friends are authors.
They have great ideas for movies and novels,
and they love to tell me about their ideas
and I love to hear them.
Occasionally they write their ideas
on paper, whatever’s handy:
sticky notes, envelopes.

The serious authors type
their ideas on computer screens.

And when they write
their faces shine
like the face of Moses.

I’ve seen the shining.

My friends go back to their jobs,
and they eat, and they watch TV,
and they go to sleep.
But when it is break time, perhaps,
or when they are in their backyards
or garages, and something looks
like something it is not-
a brick wall looks like a twirling sparkly baton,
a slumped-over tree branch looks like a gallows-
then they think about writing it down
they think about putting the inferno
of emotions and thoughts into words-
great words,
freezing the fire forever, locking it
into a solid place- a museum
that is visited and enjoyed
and commented upon
by all interested parties.

But my friends usually do not have a pencil handy,
(And anyway the writing wouldn’t sell)
so they enjoy the ideas in their minds,
for a few lovely moments,
and they tell me about them now and then.