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He spoke of roots & leaves—
tree rings & other things in his monotonous
manner—the audience at the Art Bar
in a vegetative state // I fought
the urge to squirt water in their ears—
see if they were beyond recovery //
He was the worst beet poet I had ever heard //
As a nature poet—he had the run of the mill //
I found it more interesting to see
what was going on elsewhere //
A young couple
sat at a table near the wrought iron
barrier—by the stairs—talking louder
than they should & I was annoyed—as were others //
Some people shushed them
but they ignored us & they ignored
The Rutabaga Poet
//
I was rooting
in my bag for something to
read in open mike later—while The
Rutabaga Poet
went on to a poem
decrying the silence of the yams //
I imagined he got his jollies
from observing trees falling in a forest
when there was no one else around //
I imagined a pitcher plant
large enough to swallow him //
Meanwhile—back at the wrought iron—
the two were done talking &
she got up to leave—stood over him
& kissed him full on the lips—
a kiss that lasted two whole minutes—
a kiss that could melt bibles—
a kiss that would have made
Rick get on that plane with Ilsa—
all of the while The Rutabaga
Poet
went on about leafy greens //
& when she walked past me I could see
she was crying & that was it—it was over //
She went down the steps—part way—
& I saw her talk to him through the grate—
& they held hands & she was gone //
The Rutabaga Poet
was making a comeback—
he read a few more poems—all rooted in dirt
& two of the four food groups //
Some in the audience were editors—
still others were tried-and-true workshoppers—
all wanted to turn his 3-page opus into
a not half-bad haiku //
He received generous applause
when it was clear he had read his last poem //
The Art Bar has a question & answer period—
and in the same sense that a door isn’t a door
when it is ajar—someone should have told
The Rutabaga Poet
that barley isn’t barley when
it has gone awry //
There was poetry that night but he was nowhere
near it—for poetry is about the beginning
& end of things—with the poet in the middle—
in medias res
& in the middle of all that
garden variety verse
he never got his hands dirty //
by David Clink
from: Come-on from the Horse on 7th Avenue, ©2002
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