BREAKFAST WITH POET The eyes of the poet move on, traveling past the dull landscape of my face, stubbed cigarettes and coffee bitter in his mouth. In the yellow-toothed light of morning, he wants to be somewhere else. The chips in my mug tastes like a wall. I know he'd like me to say that, better still, to write it, about coffee grounds bleeding through the filter or last night's beer cans lining the chipped formica counter. I know he wants the story of Allen Ginsberg pissing against a building, likes to read about men fingering their flesh, praying for poetic discharge. And I could give that to him, show him the dirt beneath my fingernails, count the grains of sugar his careless spooning has left on the table, tell him about my grandmother's jade necklace - how I learned my numbers to forty counting the ribbed lavender beads. I could write poems on Post-It notes, but I have nothing to say that would stick. The eyes of the poet are tic's eyes - so close to the surface they cannot focus. Breakfast with the poet is a meal best eaten cold. Afterward, I sit at the table and make a secret inventory of all he's left behind.
Reason for writing:
For a while in college, I had a mentor who was a much-older
poet in California. As I grew older and more assured in
my writing, he grew more critical, finally writing me a
letter basically saying my poetry was "sh*t" and that I should
stick to prose. This poem was a response to that disheartening
letter. I'd love any responses.
Birth sign: Not entered
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