Riff On Pradip's When A Poem Is Done Poem by David McLansky

When a poem is done
My soul is purged,
The torment released,
In nouns and verbs.

I sift the prison
Of my soul
And the words run out
My bitter toil.

For a while
There is some relief
My soul is cleansed,
My pains decreased;

But who would have thought
Would have had the impression
That in my tiny skull
Marched such a procession?

Of opinions inked
Of distinction made
Of memories linked,
A vast parade.

A ceaseless flow
Of subtle notes
Where do they go?
Once they’re unyoked.

Out into the wide world
Of Pradip and Elaine
Strangers I’d love to meet
On a cross-continental train.