Here’s an unusual chance to see the inner workings of a poet’s mind. Passing images, unanswered questions, social ills, daily frustrations—nothing is too big or too small to be worth observing and considering.
“He had the window seat. After take-off he said, ‘My line is socks; what’s yours?’ I said I was a writer. He smiled his least impressive smile and asked, ‘What do you write?’ I paused and said, ‘I hope they are poems.’ ‘Where are you headed now?’ he added. I told him I’d been invited to recite my poems at a university. ‘They pay you for that?’ ”
