Nostalgia Face

I walk into an indie
Bookstore and what
Do I see but a book
By Ted Berrigan
Old teacher, old master
Who kindly read my poems
When I was a kid
Shyly handed—“Would
You look at these, sir?”

“Sure, sure!” he
Puffed, always
Out of breath
Always exhausted
Barely carrying weight that
Would crush him
“An honor, an honor”
He puffed, headed
For a cigarette—

“That man, that man”
Another poet said
“That man’s poems
Should be in every
Motel room” and here
It is—years gone
And Berrigan long dead
At least somewhere
A master’s poems