Monday, February 7, 2011

The Poet

The scent of burning oak leaves in October in Missouri; 
an oncoming breeze laden with the smell of mint plants; 
a Chinese restaurant while waiting in line for a table; 
a passing pipe smoker using rum-and-maple tobacco; 
the uncontaminated breasts of a female companion; 
the brewing of coffee in the winter; 
the interior of a new automobile I just purchased; 
and, although I detest the smell of liquor, 
somehow, I’m carried asunder by the surprise of 
liquor on the breath of a strange lady.

             Chuck Berry’s journal excerpt in 
             The New Yorker, January 21, 2002