Friday, July 25, 2008

Portrait of the artist in his boxer shorts

When you are sitting in your college classroom
Listening to the professor drone on
About the changes in literature
Brought on by the work of this artist
The place in history he achieved
By the power of his imagination
Turning the words around on their head
Touching the hearts of his readers
Winging their imaginations to a place of communion
Teaching some sublime jewel
Threshed from the experiences of a young boy
Riding his bike down Roswell Road
Toward Buckhead and the pharmacy on the corner
You don't anticipate the experience
Of answering a call for room service
In some downtown hotel
Walking the tray down the hallway
Knocking on a hotel door, number 436,
To find yourself in the presence
Of the artist himself, answering your knock,
Sleepily awaiting your arrival
Clad only in his boxer shorts
His corpulent frame stepping away from the doorway
To effectuate your presentation
And the shimmer of his holiness was slightly altered
In the thin gray light of the early morning,
Leaving you two souls in a hotel room
Passing through the most brief of encounters,
For we all need our breakfast.

Behold the man.

Someone must deliver; someone must pay,
Or charge it to his room.

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