They were debating
what poetry should do best.
One says that it should break the shackles
strip the oppressive paperback clothing
run through the streets shouting
and scream from the top of buildings
and in the unmoving traffic of this city
choking on its own abundance.
An elderly poet disagrees.
He insists that there is, in words,
that should be left behind the closed doors
and between the pages
and the seductive whispers of the hungry poet
should be left for the ears of the reader.
If he were a democratically elected tyrant of words
he would have outlawed spoken word.
Oscillating between the page and the stage
young poet stares blankly at the wise old men.