Chicano Poet

Monday, March 19, 2007

Meeting Mr. Rexroth

He asked the Negro if he knew
a Mr. Rexroth, but the elevator operator
said nah sir, don’t know

a man lah dat… he asked
the same of a cleaning lady,
she spoke no English.

Robinson wondered what the hell
New York City was allowed to exist for,
what purpose, what goal, what foulness,

but soon his thoughts had turned terrestrial.
He finally found Rexroth,
talked business, not that poetry

had much to do with business.
They had lunch, burgers, beers.
The sun assumed the shape of buildings.

Rexroth read Tu Fu, Li Po,
No More pleaded Robinson’s inner voice,
thinking the Orient so ungifted.

They parted ways, Rexroth pleased,
and Robinson always between
a rock and a hard place,

which, oddly, seemed to endear him
to the inanimate objects he came from,
or so he thought mistakenly.


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