“And you,” she said,
“you’re a poet, I hear?”
Was she questioning herself
or what she had heard?
“Uh, no, I’m a teacher.”
“Oh.” Disappointment?
“I mean, I do write poetry
from time to time.”
“Oh,” she said again
with less interest.
“I, uh, I studied poetry
back in university,” I mumbled.
“Hmm.” Even less interest.
“Could I get you a drink?”
But she was already fading away
blending in with the rest
of the world that I had
never really felt a part of.
I left then without being seen,
which was how I often
preferred to be, I must admit.
The buses were no longer running
so I walked along Sunset
and down towards Ocean Beach
until I reached my flat.
I crept in quietly
leaving the lights off
and shuffled into the kitchen
where I poured myself
another Hemingway
with fresh grapefruit juice
and sat down at my computer
knowing already quite
how the next pointless verse
would begin.
You’re a poet, I hear?
10
George Ellington 