THE GOOD DOCTOR POET

      —with thanks to William Carlos Williams

So, we were at this boring party deep in a dull suburb,
much to our surprise, we met an aviator in the atrium—so much

depends upon casual connections, conversations drift and float
upon a sea of ambient noise, the generic hubbub fueled by

a mix of alcohol and angst, the party fizzled, it was a case of nature

red in tooth and claw, soon drunks would be carted off in red

wheelbarrows, our New Jersey pilot was out of his depth, his face

glazed with boredom, he told us a story of scars when he was five,

without preamble, he rolled up his pants, to show us his knee, his eyes
watered, a yawn, he fell out of an apple tree, the poet-doctor stood

beside him, and stitched him up. We leaned forward in unison, was
the name Williams? He said, yes how did you know? We were

white-knuckled with anticipation. We cackled like triumphant
chickens, high-fiving each other, and said, because we’re poets.

4/11 NaPoWriMo 

(now read the first word in each line, a phrase acrostic.) I wrote this before I knew what a golden shovel exercise was, it’s exactly backwards in that I begin each line with a word from the Red Wheelbarrow.  Think I’ll call it the golden hoe.

prose: We were at a dull party once in Cotati, and met an airline pilot hiding our

t in an atrium, who fell out of an apple tree at a young age and hurt himself badly. He rolled up his pants and showed us a long scar on his knee. it was a rather boring party so we were thrilled to find somebody who was still upright and talking in full sentences. He said he was from Paterson, New Jersey. Mimi Albert and I leaned closer and said in one breath, was your doctor William Carlos Williams? And he said yes, how did you know? we quoted from red wheelbarrow and then said we were Poets, he laughed and said but of course. So, 1° of separation