Too Many G-D Poets
Too many poets.
Dreadful.
Roiled.
Yes, I too, am a guilty poet.
While I sit and wait for my soup to arrive, I read a few pages of Simic, and the Seattle
papers.
The noodles cook and drain.
Mrs. Green slices the smoked pork.
I fight to tune out the background signals, the laughter and static,
while I scribble arthritic sentences
in my composition book.
I never run into anyone from the old days.
They are all far, far away or dead.
I don’t remember the last time a pretty girl
made me laugh, or an old friend
told me a good story.
The bowl of Pho came, hot and spilling over the side.
I watch a skinny teen with bad skin, scribble in her binder for fifteen minutes, and I
wonder what she is saying.
Copyright © Thomas Pitre | Year Posted 2008
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