A Disagreement with the Old Poet

“Everything is fodder”
The old poet dragged deeply on his Malboro.
His face was still red from last night’s bender.

“We’re not like other people.
We watch too much.
We feel too much. We can either drink
or write.”

I sip my cup of coffee. It steams.
Black and hearty.
“I disagree.” I said.

“I think we are exactly like other people.
only, we leak.”

About this poem. 

From time to time I am reminded of my first poetry teacher, a crusty, hard-drinking, co-ed ooogling old man from North Carolina named Robert Hazel. Not a role model, but a wonderful poet. his lessons about poetry still rattle around in my head. Something reminds me of him and there’s no getting rid of it until I write it down.