Near Joseph Brodsky by Mike James

Not in a long brown coat, alone on a bench,

Gazing across Central Park’s privileged expanse. 

Not clearing his throat to quote Lowell 
Or Auden. Not saying, the thousandth time, 
The poet’s one job is to write well. 

Not flirting. No prepared smile to hint at later interest. 
And not correcting upstarts in need of reading, 
Discipline, and (the hardest) long patience. 

He stood away from party table food and students. 
Foraged in his pockets for something missed. 
Never brought out coin, key, or cigarettes. 

He drank his glass of wine. Kept a distance. 
He might have been in a dark forest with miles of snow. 
He might have been in the silence he carried from home. 

Mike James makes his home outside Nashville, Tennessee and has published widely. His many poetry collections include: Red Dirt Souvenir Shop (Analog Submissions), Journeyman’s Suitcase (Luchador), Parades (Alien Buddha), Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor (Blue Horse), First-Hand Accounts from Made-Up Places (Stubborn Mule), Crows in the Jukebox (Bottom Dog), My Favorite Houseguest (FutureCycle), and Peddler’s Blues (Main Street Rag.) He served as an associate editor of The Kentucky Review and currently serves as an associate editor of Unbroken.