The other night, my special, lady-friend* and I were at a coffee shop enjoying a couple of smoothies, mine with mango and strawberry flavors blended together**, when I was approached by a middle-aged, Black man who asked if I liked poetry. Now, I suppose I could have said, "No. I don't really care for poetry, unless you know some dirty limericks.***" That would have been the best answer, but I was caught off-guard and I had a touch of a head freeze, so I said, "You bet. Big poetry fan here." He then asked if I'd like to hear a poem, so I said, sure, so long as it was a quick one. He then read us FOUR poems, which was more then I asked for, but he did read them fast, and I mean fast, like the guy from the Micromachines (TM) commercials.
When he was done, he asked if we'd like to buy a packet of hand-written, photocopied, versions of the poems we had just heard, complete with piss-pour illustrations, and his name signed and printed at the bottom of each one, all for the low, low price of $10 a piece. Part of his sales pitch was to tell us that he is a Vietnam veteran, he is fifty-eight years old, and he proceeded to lift up his shirt and show us a scar on his stomach. I produced a dollar from my wallet, and I said I'd just give him a buck for his time. He counter-offered with five bucks for the two packets we were reading along with, and I said fine. Then he asked if he could have the other dollar I took out too. I thought that last request was a bit shameless, but I was happy to give it to him, because he gave us something to talk about for the next half-hour, and here I am blogging about him.
Now, without further ado, I give you mine and Marcus' favorite poem from the aforementioned packet. At first glance it looks really simplistic, but when I read it, I can't help but recall the exact cadence and the level of sincerity with which he read it. His performance convinced me that Mr. Greene was really in love at some point in his fifty-eight years on this earth, and that make happy, and a little reluctant to throw out the packet when I'm done with this blog.
Love, By Marcus Greene
Love, as the flower grows
The little butterfly knows
My heart throbs, and as for
You my love also grows
* For the reacord, Dr. Ken's progressions goes:
This Chick I"m Seeing
** I know, what a goofy drink, but it was refreshing on a hot night, it was too late for coffee, and my options were limited due to my lactose intolerance.
*** My favorite dirty limerick starts with
There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose dick was so long he could suck it.