Today a poet friend sent me images of himself
in performance totaling,
unbelievably, 10,000k, crashing into my computer
like an eighteen-wheeler. There
are several different views of him preening at a lectern
so that one could
from every angle. What is it about poets? He's a
pretty good guy
I told my brother Larry about this, and said I was glad
free from such juvenile vanity
Larry then brought up
irrelevantly, I feel,
a painful scene at a reading where some punk kid
himself by making the big mistake of supposing
it was his turn to read.
It was MY turn.
Larry said that he "much admired the steely smile
with which you refused to yield the stage,"
but that some might call it vanity.