An accidental meeting with the great man
allowed me to ask questions about his poetry
which made him look distantly at me.
I was terrified of his impatience. I kept on,
aware I was only diminishing him in my enthusiasm.
He was bored (I thought for an instant of Berryman
who, bearded, older, he resembled.) Fan
or no, I wasn’t going to waste a minute on small talk.
(not a minute to be polite, you fool?)
Here was the living source of poetry I loved!
Of course it doesn’t work that way. He scratched, suppressed a yawn,
(we silently shared a thought: ‘wouldn’t I be gone?’)
and only towards the end of the conversation
(cut short by a smiling rescuer, a reviewer I despised)
did the poet evince poetry. He said something ridiculous.
“The secret of my appeal—listen, I am bad—
the poems, like life, succeed (like life) when sad.”
He was not describing his work, but me.
No, just the situation. I stood up. He was free.