The poet and the audience

The question, which may be asked,
is did I, the poet, write the poem,
to be heard specifically by you,
one potential listener,
out of 7 billion potentials?

Poets, functional autistics,
to varying degrees,
write alone
or in company.

Perhaps the musty solitude of an outpost lighthouse,
solitary bearers of the literary flame

or in that peculiar social space called,
the writing workshop, where fellow obsessives and aspirants
(who fancy the idea of being a writer, but are not enslaved by it),
sit in circles,
pretending to be interested in each others' work,
whilst the facilitator suffers all torments,
and thinks of the fee as she searches
amidst scrambled arrangements
for intimations of beauty and meaning.

Perhaps I knew of one and two,
who would be here, who promised to be here,
all other considerations factored in,
and perhaps I wrote this poem particularly for them.

And perhaps my autistic edges are softened
in anticipation and enactment of the poem being received,
travelling the airwaves of history,
as choice phrases or gestures ascend into
the neon lights of immortality
or at the very least we all go home,
with one more piece to the puzzle;
a few steps further,
deeper into the ocean of language,
in which we all live, move and speak our being.