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.