James Tate

An old man, few niceties, some stuttering and near collapses. "I long to be abducted," he intones. Doesn't look up. The first read through I can only see his hands and a little white tuft under his lip quivering. His voice is gruff and low, but we're all laughing and our gaze is warm. If he feels any of it, we can't tell. An hour in I wonder if my life too could be summed up in a series of anecdotes involving two people and a bizarre crisis. He must have had the same thought at some point. Afterwards we're standing around eating expensive cheese that will probably give us all gas and my boss tells me to fix him a nice plate and some coffee. So I do, and he's out in the hall in a chair looking smaller and older now. I am in front of him giant and nameless. He sees me, in the form of pastries and coffee, and says No (thanks.) A long pause So this is how a poem occurs. A frozen smile; leaden plate and cup; a swift and quiet rift in mundane assumptions. I wrap his food, take it home, and in the grave secrecy of my kitchen calmly mash his fruit tart between my teeth.