Back
to main episode
Poem Eighty-five
I had a book of poetry
by Al Pittman
it died in a fire
the victim of bad planning and blindness
but shortly before that
it told stories about daughters
I read it while walking home
up Long's Hill to Lemarchant Road
the city smells of salt
the book ink rich and pulp paper
I never met the poet
but he sent me the book
favoritism and small-town connections paying off
on the inside cover
even as the pages curled
and fire altered its chemical makeup
the inscription read
“rod, let's go and tell some lies together”
and I've never stopped
September 10, 2007