dangle legs over these steep and lofty
cliffs above Tintern Abbey. He’s writing
in a parchment notebook, sips Twinings tea,
taps rhythms with his pen. I’m reciting
his “Intimations” ode. He loudly clears
his throat. Snaps, “Do you mind. I’m trying to
craft a sonnet.” “Your first work to appear
in print was a sonnet,” I recall. “True,”
he scowls, “and I’d like to pen another
before sunset.” But I’m feeling impish.
I lean toward him. Smile. “Bill, would it bother
you to discuss your past?” He frowns: “Go fish.”
“Tell me about that French girl you knocked up…”
My skull catches his shattering teacup.
Roger Armbrust
July 28, 2007
