I Met A Poet Poem by Jenny Kalahar

A too-thin, sunburned flea-market vendor
leaned back loosely, legs wide
fanning himself where he sat
in the semi-shade of a tattered awning
screwed into the side of a rusted blue trailer

Sweat dripped from his face
to his open-to-the-waist Sunday cotton short-sleeved shirt
striped and stained with more of the red dust
that covered most of the six acres around us

He had—among box lids of jumbled hand tools
fishing tackle, plastic safety whistles
chipped chipmunk salt-n-peppers
grease-smeared beer can cozies
road maps with tender folds and long-rerouted highways
Sylvester the cat drinking glasses and used universal remotes—
a pile of his self-published poetry books

Five titles had he, all poems set in southern mountains
chock full of true stories, said their author.
True, but put down with pretty words
in a language his people spoke, but some they never did
like a blend of pork & beans served with French pastries, the poet said
or finger-painted one-dimensional sunsets
displayed beside a Flemish master's work

I listened, nodding, wondering if I should confess to writing
but he grew tired of bothering with a non-buyer
a woman who never reached into jean pockets for dollar bills
never picked up a wrench or hammer in contemplation
and so he turned in relief to talk to someone he knew

I felt weary in the hot of late afternoon
frustrated by something I couldn't have explained.
As I turned to go, I noticed that one of the poet's books
had fallen onto the red dirt under his folding tables.
The old man's words melted out from their covers like ice cream
puddling into a mud of pork & beans and fancy pastries
and I knew it wouldn't do to pick that book up again.
The ground was thirsty for his words of moist days and rolling hills
and, perhaps, some experiences are better left unread