A Coincidence
Sometimes my mind wanders to people long gone. I move around a lot. There are tectonic shifts in any social geography, I suppose. I thought of Charles Carey. He always called himself “the rhyming man,” with a grin for the derision he always got at the poetry readings. You can’t rhyme, they say, with their sneers. He rhymes anyway. He lost one of his legs in the war. He writes about the plants, and children’s laughing, and I remember his poems more than their noses anyway. I wonder whatever happened to Charles.
Then, he calls me. Says he had that funny feeling in his ears like maybe somebody was talking about him or something. Strange.
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