I was drinking wine
with Robert Pinsky the other night
on the cement stoop
of a gray and distant dusk
his backyard growing honest intentions
out from stems of vivid
daffodils and tulips
ivy leaves of morning glory cascading down
cement walls confining a safe haven
for all that is pure
in the American Poet dream
The wine was good
I sipped and wondered
about the tiny bean plant
emerging from the soil
how it felt
with ivy around its neck
how long it would last
under that noose
how a trickling fountain
just might be enough
poetry for the day
Robert poured another glass
mentioned another breakthrough
on the perfection of his backswing
it could have been a conversation
about tennis
or Tennessee Williams
it could have been advice
to a future Poet Laureate
I don’t recall
When he mentions
how many poets there are
named Robert
I do recall two years ago
moving into my apartment
uprooting the morning glory
to let the tiny ones grow.