Come As You Are

My buddy Joe’s a successful poet, an oxymoron if there ever was one. His degree in English qualified him for a social services job with a non-profit, working with the homeless and others cast off and marginalized. In his spare time, he wrote. Some short stories, but mostly poetry. In notebooks, on scratch paper, scribbled upon paper napkins in dive bars. He sent them off to magazines big and small, mostly small. Had them published in various zines (including mine) back in the days of Factsheet Five, before the internet exploded. Self published a bunch of chapbooks.

Poetry slams. Lots of them. In bookstores, bars, coffee shops. Usually getting to them on his motorcycle. Never a Harley rider though, he was an Indian rider with an older Scout that he’d lovingly restored.

Eventually, his poems came to the attention of an English department head at a small college and Joe got a job teaching poetry and, with his new found academic bona fides, started getting published in literary journals. And one day found in his mail slot a letter stating that he’d won an Award named in honor of a Famous Mainstream Author along with the date and venue for presentation of the Award and a stipend. Huh he thought, stuffing it in an inside pocket of his motorcycle jacket.

On the night of the Award, he rode his Indian to the venue, with some new poems in the same pocket. It wasn’t until he’d walked in that he realized he was very under dressed. Black ties and evening gowns everywhere. The Famous Mainstream Author deep in conversation with the Governor and the state’s junior Senator.

At least Joe had a collared shirt under the leather jacket.