You worry. Rest assured, I’m fine.
If my verse chills from time to time,
seems colder still between the lines,
and ices over in harsh rhyme,
it does not indicate my state.
Beneath the frost my warmth remains,
but in my absence you conflate
my life’s repose with my art’s feint.
Richard Porter is but a lowly reference clerk who jumps rope with the Kansas/Missouri border. His poetry has appeared in The Asses of Parnassus, Better Than Starbucks, Grand Little Things, and Wine Cellar Press.