The Summons
 
Being SUMMONED
to the great man's house
(actually a townhouse)
I was ushered in
by his wraith of a wife
to the sitting room
where the great thoughts
of the day would transpire.
Being summoned
for an afternoon of talk,
of poetry--
I sat in the high-backed chair
rigid-like an executee
waiting for the juice . . .
while the great man talked
of politics, misalliances
and the curious fortunes
that had brought him
to these shores.
I listened immobile
(as was meet),
but really I wanted
to talk poetry: my poetry
that I'd given for inspection-
to reassure myself
I was on my way
to being great.
As the sun refracted
through the faux french window
the great man sensed this,
and being not indisposed
to an act of generosity,
restored my parcel of poems
with pencil-marked corrections
(mostly punctuation)
and a note
that perhaps I might
better exercise
my talents in prose.
 

 

 

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