Kenneth Patchen Comes to Lunch
by Tracy Mitchell

I make collard green roll-ups with carrot,
avocado innards, tofurky, and Sriracha–
sliced on the diagonal. I forget whether
he writes or paints his poems these days.

He declares art is a perched walnut
then launches a story about squirrels–
enough to make Dostoyevsky blush.

We drink lime water from canning jars.
The cat curls in his lap, its tail flitting
like a broken windshield wiper as he

tells the story of Two-finger John at the riverbed.
We watch the sun go down, which is always
a good ending to lunch. Rexroth sleeps in the car.



 

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