the intervention

they are all there,
mr. frost with his carved
mean face, the meanest
man who ever took
a breath, so said
truman capote.
and over there shyly
eating crackers and
cheese is emily,
wrapped tight in her
layers of clothes
and perfectly rhyming
poetry and prose that
can all be sung to
the yellow rose of texas.
t.s. and ezra
pound are there too
solemn and quiet, shaking
their heads. e e has
even showed up, long
and tall, so serious
as he speaks in broken
sentences. half
words, half thoughts,
puzzling and blue.
and over there
in the corner
is elizabeth bishop
talking
about fish and the
gas station, the rainbow
in a puddle of oil,
buenos aires,
mark strand is talking
about the longest party.
near the turned on
oven without a flame
is sylvia and sexton
fighting over who
gets the knife,
and then there's hank
bukowski, drunk
as usual with his
hand up an intern's
skirt. saying words
that have no reason
to be in a poem. i'd be
remiss if i didn't
mention oscar wilde,
being happily
misunderstood flirting
with a busboy, and
philip larkin with
his rhyming british
wit reciting a poem
about mr. feeney in his
rented room. ginsberg
and kerouac smoking
a joint and listening
to dylan babble on
about how it's not dark
yet, but it's getting
there. so many gathered
to give me a literary
what for. to give
me hell for what i'm
undertaking. it's an
intervention of poets
and i'm in the chair,
in the middle, unbroken,
still writing whatever
the hell i want to.