The Poet

I have spent this morning trying to tell you about last night's epiphany, but I have done so without wisdom or wit.  And so it goes.  Now, time running out, I fear the thing I want to say will never be said for my life is never my own.  In brief, last evening I interviewed The Great Poet, America's Poet.  He has been wintering at Country Club College, but for a moment he went ghetto and spoke before the masses.  And therein lies the tale.

I was introduced to The Great Man before the reading, and I knew right away he didn't care for me at all.  It was not an active dislike but more the garden variety distaste, the sort you have for going to get your driver's license renewed, something you don't want to do but know will be over soon enough and not have to be done again for quite some time.

And truly, I am used to it.  The reaction of The Writer, I mean, for I have suffered through it before.  Many times.  At The Kennedy Library for a PEN event, Updike disliked me in front of an august crowd--Caroline Kennedy, Annie Prouxl, George Plimpton, et. al.  Rick Bass scowled at me when I offered him a compliment at a writer's conference and again years later when I met him once more.  I will tell you sometime about Q's and my adventure with James Salter at the 92nd St. Y, but Q can attest to Salter's disdain (for me--he and Q were quite chummy).  Of course, I've already told you about my misadventure with Thomas McGuane.  I brought that on myself.

But last night, juxtaposed on barstools before the crowd, I had time to contemplate the thing and to wonder.

And in juxtaposition, I came up short.

But I haven't time to tell it now.  I've struggled here too long.  There will be time later to tell it wisely.  Perhaps.  Or at least to tell it so that my failures have a certain charm from which we all will gain insight.  Yes, yes, that will be my point.  My failures will be successes.  And if I do not gain victory, I will have a noble defeat.

If I can write it.

But not this morning.  Not today.  The factory whistle blew long ago.  I will have to climb the fence and sneak in the back door hoping not to be found out by the bosses.  And now, tail between legs, I must dash.  Another day I will never get back.