A Meeting Of Poets
I dreamed we were meeting up with the family of a high-flying lawyer. He was completely bald with freckles- and when my mother approached him he acted like he didn't know her. I was about 20 so I was hanging out with his kids. The daughter was called Rosamund and she wrote poems. She read me one about 911. I wasn't impressed but pretended I was because she was very beautiful. "Ah, Rosamund" I thought, "Rosa Mundi, Rose of the world, the most beautiful name in existence...." But didn't say it because her younger brother had already told me "Our Rosamund doesn't flirt." She was a very serious young lady. We were walking down a muddy lane and came to a wall we had to climb. "I write poems too" I said. "I'm not a poetical person," she replied, "The poems just come." "I write poems because I'm a poet," I said, as I hauled myself up to the top of the wall....