04-15-2017, 10:29 PM
Kenneth Patchen Comes to Lunch
I make collard green rollups with carrot,
avocado innards, tofurky, and Sriracha–
sliced on the diagonal. I forget whether
he writes or paints his poems these days.
He declares art is a perched walnut
then launches a story about squirrels
enough to make Dostoyevsky blush.
We drink lime water from canning jars.
The cat curls in his lap, its tail flitting
like a broken windshield wiper as he
tells the story of Two-finger John at the riverbed.
We watch the sun go down, which is always
a good ending to lunch. Rexroth sleeps in the car.
I make collard green rollups with carrot,
avocado innards, tofurky, and Sriracha–
sliced on the diagonal. I forget whether
he writes or paints his poems these days.
He declares art is a perched walnut
then launches a story about squirrels
enough to make Dostoyevsky blush.
We drink lime water from canning jars.
The cat curls in his lap, its tail flitting
like a broken windshield wiper as he
tells the story of Two-finger John at the riverbed.
We watch the sun go down, which is always
a good ending to lunch. Rexroth sleeps in the car.