Sick in bed with the flu, many years ago, I was watching
a soap (Young & the Restless?) - yes, I have known true disgrace -
and this lithe, tanned, Adonis jogged past two women
sipping umbrella-spiked drinks on a balcony. The man waved.
One of the women waved back. The other woman asked her who he was.
She replied. "He's a famous poet". This troubled me profoundly.
It wasn't that he looked vaguely like W.S. Merwin on steroids,
it was because I couldn't align success as a poet with all
the effort required to groom the body into such a perfect form.
I may have been hallucinating on a heady brew of pseudoephedrine
and eucalyptus oil. I know you can be healthy and still write poetry.
But _that_ healthy? There are only so many hours in the day...
Who the hell _was_ that man?
in fun
Anthony
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