Wednesday, December 24, 2014


A delegation of Minor Georgian Poets
Were, the message said, trying to contact me
I yield to no man in my fondness for Lascelles Abercrombie
Nor am I without regard for Sir John Squire who must
Stagger towards eternity bearing the heavy weight
Of Virginia Woolf's disdain. Still, a tryst with them
Would, I knew, leave me writing wistfully for a month after.
Reluctantly, I arranged to meet them at the ghost of a Needicks
Which, until it was razed, had operated in the shadow
Of the
Third Avenue El. Rupert Brooke spoke most;
Old Robert Graves refused to be seen with Eddie Marsh
So had sent his younger self who ate three hamburgers
Two of them with cheese and one with extra onions.
None of them had American money, so I paid
Not forgetting to tip the semi-transparent waiter.

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