Out of the city’s tangled grey mass
The writer sped toward the meeting
With the poet
An illustrator of his dreams.
He rushed into the hall of illustrious
Coffee drinkers in a hum of
Except of some serious contemp’s
Who kept enclosed to themselves
Notating their thoughts on digital
‘I’ve conceived the story’ the writer
Said with his blue woolen cap on.
‘I’ve sketched down first thoughts’
The poet replied and added ‘let’s hear
Writer E prepared his laptop.
Poet Z opened his unlined notebook.
‘I wish a glass of Viennese water’
The poet asked the rushing waiter.
‘You mean tap water’ the waiter
Replied ‘otherwise it might even come
‘So?’ the poet felt pulled by his legs.
They both began to laugh as the poet’s
Question mark blew up a balloon
And rose toward the high ceiling.
Writer E started with his blurb of
Fantasy and it took off for 90 minutes
And intermeshed at the ceiling with
The poet’s huge Question mark-balloon.
Soon the succus of it came down like
Wetting the poet’s hair and skin
And sank into his innerness to ferment.
As the writer E ended his talk
A colourful balloon blew up and rose
Toward the high level ceiling
Where it hovered at the kerb of the
Main street thoughts
To be picked up like a waiting child.
Back into the city’s rushing mass
Of people cars trams and cyclists
The mind’s waves escaped into the
Early night air
Like a bottle of uncorked wine
To turn into a pleasant drink.