Mrs. Robinson

I was on a toboggan with Louise Bogan. This was in 1969.
She only had a year to live. So, she was living it up. She had
stopped writing poetry two minutes before I met her. I had
foregone my sixth year at Julliard School of Prance. Mexicans
weren’t created to tippy-toe, anyway. Louise, being a poet,
assumed that every snowflake was exactly the same. I told her,
no, no, nelson, there are actually two types of flakes. Square
and even squarer. (This squarer concept is hard to comprehend
unless you’re at whiz at math). She was astounded.

While I removed the feathers from the toboggan, she calculated
the distance between Point A and Point B which coincidently
turned out to be Stephen Hawking’s waist measurement.

Louise’s thighs like most old lady thighs do not excite young men,
not even Mexicans. Yet, I courted and wooed her, or she courted
and wooed me.