Old Men/Poets *
Every old man believes he is a poet.
I know this first hand.
Poets cry at the drop of a hat
A young man one rarely does that,
But old men cry over broken, old chairs,
Disappearing hair
Need I go on on that account?
Also, old men can’t hold their whiskey.
I know this first hand.
Poetry and whiskey
Are a risky combination.
A lubricated heart and tongue
With a brain full of sand and fog
He’ll likely mistake
For intellect
And inspiration.
An old man can find a way
Around his every foible,
He is a master of manipulation.
But words have a way
Of twisting on the spit
Of a fellow with more
Than three generations.
His poetry only one place fits,
That’s in his own imagination.
So, if you are inextricably pair’d
With a fellow with graying
Thin hair,
And he whips out a pen
And starts right in
But you don’t know
What he’s saying…?
Picture yourself
With a crinkled up face
And a wealth of knowledge
To disseminate.
Take a deep breath
And a swallow of beer
It won’t be long
Until You Are Here.
* Dedicated to Garrison Keillor who wrote:
“... Readers and writers are two sides of the same gold coin.
You write and I read and in that moment I find
A union more perfect than any club I could join:
The simple intimacy of being one mind”
