I do not think about the two
hour drive to see him read
in a minivan packed
with classmates, Professor Jackman
at the wheel, nor the fish and chips
we will eat at the pub
with only one beer
before the same ride back,
me sitting shotgun discussing
philosophy of education
and grandeur of writing
dreams. I do not think
of his reading of loopholes
as I fell into an absent iris,
or the genealogy of a poem
birthed at a country fair—
the kind that displays Cinderella
pumpkins, Foghorn Leghorn
chickens—and he still
let the poem tell of the six-
legged dog. I thought
of none of this after my book
was signed by the former
Poet Laureate as I climbed
the stairs, but of the two
well dressed women,
who would have
been ticket takers
had there been tickets
or ushers had they shown
us to our seats,
discussing a department
store advertisement
for toilet paper
one had found on sale.
--Ian Uriel Girdley
Free Ebooks! This poem and more at www.ianurielgirdley.com








amused



melancholy



![Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. [repeat]](http://cuteoverload.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/glare.jpg?w=560&h=560)



sick
