(in defense of poverty of self as he taught me) by Benjamin Thayer

i watched as he stumbled into his apartment. He was drunk, or maybe not drunk. i don’t remember as i was drunk, i remember stumbling.

The old man had broken eyes, they were glassy and worn out. There were papers all over his room, some in the garbage can.

His typer was rusted and loud.

He tried to show me how to write a poem.

i watched and watched, and the old man began to sweat.

He became angry and loud.

His voice reminded me of napalm.

He looked at me and told me i wasn’t cut out for poetry.

It’s true.

i wasn’t a poet, who was ever a poet.

i just walked out, thinking about the older man, his life. Women would come and go through him and through his house. They always wanted money, he usually gave it to them.

He would go on to die free rock climbing. A rock slipped from his hands and he fell 200 feet to his death. His best friend at the funeral described the noise as

“SPLAT”

i guess he wasn’t worth much else.

His posthumous poetry collection was titled-
“I sold my soul for an ounce of pyrite”

Pyrite is worth 10 cents a caret