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Didn’t expect to see him there even though the crowd was so him so middle aged and white, between the balds another bald. His glasses blinked and saw me.
The band had finished and in my left hand arrived the neck of the blue and white guitar special and sweaty and slipping down
Here, I held it out, I gave it to him, it’d been so long since we’d talked
Now it was sweaty in his hands. We talked about that and other things.
He said the moon disc is surprised by your caprice.
And I said but some songs get sucked back to the left margin.
And he said yeah, tidal forces.
Then I said you compel my attention more than the blackbird, more than the air.
Which prompted him to say you carry certain ideas like a canoe across your shoulders, or wait, two canoes that are perpendicular.
And I said yeah, and where’s the lake.
He said just words herded by sheep dogs who tomorrow will sleep tomorrow.
And I said what I wonder about, what I really wonder about is where all those flecks of fingernail polish land, like what kind of map.
He said isn't it strange the professionalization of poetry in our modern times.
I said I mean the New Yorker and you’ve made it.
He said zoom out just a little bit, is any of it still a poem, zoom out and how can getting a poem in the New Yorker mean anything.
I said you’re making me want to send this to the New Yorker.
He said I think you should. I said to, you know, just send it to the New Yorker just to have said hello to the New Yorker in a poem in just such a way.
And so I did.
And then my friend and I fucked and he was nice afterwards full of compliments about my pussy and my poem which was a surprise because I’d taken a look recently and it was not what I thought since it had been a while and I’d never made a habit of it back then but now I know and I’m glad my friend was nice.