A Poet Died Yesterday
by Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue

a prize-winning, fairly famous poet, in fact.
And if ever a Nobel prize is given posthumously
for literary assholishness,
this guy should win hands down.

Back in the 70's, he visited my college
to give a few readings,
make a good payout,
maybe even get laid.

The “literati” from my small college
schlepped him to a Tex-Mex joint, where he,
too busy gossiping with some hanger-on
from the Ivy League, tuned us out.

Then, at his request,
we hauled him to a liquor store,
where he bought enough bottles of hooch
to knock out an elephant, maybe two.

The next day, red-eyed, word-slurring,
obviously hungover as hell,
he gave a reading – of sorts.
Then after 2 questions in a scheduled Q&A,

and a pause no more than a nanosecond,
blurted, “So if that's all, I'm gone.”
Then Mr. Big Name Poet walked out,
as he did life, yesterday.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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