Encounter on the subway
I was reading my introduction to theory. An old man sat down next to me and asked me about the book. We started talking, I explained that I’m applying to graduate school; he explained that he is a poet. Samuel Menashe. On his way to a reading at McNally-Jackson. He wrote down the time and place of his next reading—Nov 1 at a library—on a piece of an envelope he had in his pocket. We talked for quite a while–it was a local train. He couldn’t remember the story about my name, so I told him, and I also told him where I’m from, Nashville to Boston to New York, and he told me about his being published in England and Ireland but not the United States until recently. He showed me his book from the American Poets Series. Then he took the piece of envelope back and said he wanted to give one of his poems to me. Don’t look at it until I’m finished, he said. I want you to see it all at once. After he wrote the poem, he signed his name underneath it and made a note, dated, that it was copied out for me, and he wrote out my name. The poem is two lines long. It concerns a pot, and it suited the occasion perfectly. The poet said it has been anthologized a few times. We came to 14th Street and I said I’m glad you said hello, and I’ll see you at the next reading.
