The Old Poet Serves Breakfast
The old poet swills his bourbon
and sticks his fork in yesterday’s scrambled eggs.
“Small words.” He tells you.
“You are not T. S. frigging Eliot.
You are nineteen and you want people to believe you.
Small words. It is more of a challenge
creating beauty and paint from a small palette,
but that is the test of the artist,
out of twigs.”
He offered you a shot.
but you took his advice
and it serves you well,
even now, when you are as old as he
was, finishing your own breakfast,
About this poem
At this point, I probably have enough of “The Old Poet” poems to do a book.
The old poet is Robert Hazel, my first poetry teacher. A hard drinking, co-ed chasing, blunt talking, depressive-manic mess of a man who was, to my mind, the perfect teacher for nineteen year old mess of a boy at that point in my life. Hell of a poet too.