The day the great poet died

(He was a great poet, the experts said so,

Though I had never heard of him, which just

Shows my ignorance), the radio people played

A recording of him reading a poem

About the death of a friend.

There he was, in his gravelly voice

Intoning

The virtues of his friend, the other poet,

Who

Knew how to seize the moment

As only a poet can

While remaining totally

Manly.

His voice so deep, so experienced,

So pure,

You felt positive

He was wearing a plaid flannel shirt

And maybe

Fireman's braces, to hold his trousers

Up.

Telling us about how he cried for his friend.

Manly tears, of course,

Which implies

The great truth about great poets,

Who are all

Manly men,

That their tears are truly

Important.

Not like the tears of

Women - who cares

If women cry? But men,

Real men, the kind

Who write deep thoughts

Comparing their ideas to

Minnows (proving we are men who

Do Real Things, like Fishing),

The tears of these real men

Are real.

How do they do it, these

Tough poets, with their

Long pauses in the reading,

Long enough to make you wish

They would take lessons in

Elocution

Or at least

Listen to the radio more?

One Real Poet must find another, I suppose,

Maybe way down in Mexico somewhere

Where

The hanging lanterns sway

In smoky rooms, over tables laden with cervesa bottles and

Poker chips, with women in red to

Admire them.

The line

Must go on unbroken, from one

Heroic verse-maker to the other,

Reading each other's work,

Getting at the real,

Manly truth.

Rest in peace, say I,

As I secretly promise myself

I will never read poetry in public

While wearing a plaid flannel shirt.