It was my first time meeting a writer
Brand new book, published and everything
He stood, quivering, sheltered, in his wrinkled black 501s—
Costumed tailored shirt, the initials read EC
Blazer, black suede. Let’s not forget his outdated soul patch
Bald with long hair in the back, a pity of a mullet
He spoke to me, what do you wanna know?
About? Everything. You have to write. So, write.
We get interrupted; he has to make a speech
The crowd is four glasses in. A man whispers to me smokescreen
Typical, no respect.
He shakes, his mouth scared to even move, fumbling every word
I need a glass.
I pour it; he downs it and begins to read
Slur
The audience mingles, forgets why they are here. What should we eat?
A pause, an applause.
And no one gave two ***** about what he had to say
Or what he wrote.
All, but me.
It was great meeting you, pop a bottle of pinot
and we’ll talk more about what not to do in writing.
Or, we can just drink.
He taught me everything.