THE OLD POET, EN PLEIN AIR
The old poet, sitting on the park bench behind the
ice rink, scribbles things in his pocket notebook about
vultures and sacred groves. A younger man, weathered
by his years outdoors, comes and sits at the other end
of the bench.
“So, man,” he asks, “are you going back to the
The poet pauses, appears uncertain.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Yeah,” the younger man says, “things are getting
just too intense down there.”
“Yeah,” the old poet responds, but there
is a small, almost inaudible catch in his breath.