We go to the local store in the boonies
to redeem empties for chips and dip -
the proprietress is a bit snooty
(like those national chain stores that pretend
to put the customer first are no threat to her)
and inFORMS us that it isn�t Tuesday,
so you can forGET the nickels!
but everyone at the party's so distracted
they never notice we arrive empty handed.
Ted's doing a wine tasting (not any Ted,
Ted BERRIGAN!). He takes a swig of
Waters West, the label�s an ocean scene,
and suddenly he is IN the waves,
waggling the bottle, real surf lapping
the carpet, THIS IS GOOD SHIT!
But something pisses him off, and he�s off
to write a thirty page diatribe. We all follow
him across the field to his farmhouse
where I stand and watch him
finish a manuscript in like half an hour.
This guy next to me (I should know his name?)
is busy pawing through kitchen drawers
and cubbyholes and pockets pulling out
poems on scraps of paper that Ted has left around
or given to friends. The manuscript's butterfly-clipped
and left on the table for the publisher; this guy