WALKING WITH THE POET TED MACKER
I’d walk now and then with my young poet friend.
We’d amble over to State Street, down
to the ocean, once saw a shoeless, shirtless
guy handcuffed, four police
to this one shoeless guy,
public profanity the charge.
Often in Ted’s poems he’s awed
by girls, and when we take our walks
maybe out along State Street Pier,
the girls show up, some display piercings,
midriffs bared, tattoos. Often
these girls smile at Ted, he’s a handsome guy.
We’ll be chatting, say, about Louis-Ferdinand
Celine when whoa, like a pointer-dog
Ted stops and POINTS: a sighting: my God,
there she is, magnificent She.
We’re astonished.
Then we move on.
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