“A Few Lines Composed while You were Talking”

by Robin Keehn

You have a question.

You need advice about poetry,

about being a poet.

You tell me you’re broke and need money.

I joke that you’ve already met the number one 

requirement of the profession.

And then you ask 

if I know where you might sell some of your poems.

I don’t know what to say.

I’m thinking you’re no Billy Collins.

I’m thinking I’ve never made a penny from poetry.

I’m thinking I’m no Billy Collins, either.

You are still talking, 

something about a transmission,

and your girlfriend, 

and your cell phone bill,

and your roommate 

who eats your food.

And as I nod my head, 

I begin to imagine you sporting a goatee,

a beret cocked to the side, dark black sunglasses,

a diaphanous peasant blouse, billowy, unbuttoned 

exposing your hairless chest.

You’re on a hot street corner in New York City,

slouching behind a table 

covered with a smart madras cloth 

complemented by a vase of black tulips

as Davis’s Bitches Brew wafts around you.

And when a stilettoed urbanite approaches, 

you hoist the heavy blue glass pitcher  

rattling with shards of ice

and offer a tall glass of fresh lemonade,

and a poem—an original—written by you.

All for only a dollar.                                                                        

Robin Keehn lives in Encinitas, California.  She teaches literature and writing at Cal State University, San Marcos.  She holds a Ph.D. in English and American literature from the University of California, San Diego.