Doing a reading

out in the sticks

and shocking the casbah 

so to speak.


This woman 

approaches me 

after my performance

to discuss the meaning

of my verse.


She starts going off

about Freudian slips

and Jungian archetypes

and Poundien this

and Shakespearean that

and scholarly whatever.


I have no idea

what she’s talking about.

Most of it is

quite considerably

over my head.


I sit there 

in a deep daze

listening to her

ramble on about

the meaning of my poetry

which may well be

the meaning of my life

and all I do

is shake my head 

with profound wonder.


I think,

Hey, I wrote it

while taking a dump

on a Greyhound bus

suffering from a hangover

that felt like

a bad mescaline trip

and it may not

actually mean anything.


Then others approach
and question me
on the meaning.


I just nod my head,

“Yeah, what she said.”

Pointing to the woman,

“That’s what it means.”

Got me out of having

to explain myself

which is always

a pain in the ass.


It was a narrow escape

and I was grateful 

to get so lucky.

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