By: Scott

Oh,Terrance Hayes you sly dog. How dare you make me enjoy contemporary poetry! I grew up falling in love with the simple lines and delicate rythyms of Shel Silverstein. How dare you bring me into your world by pulling your world out of your pocket? Mr. Hayes presented himself behind the lectern garbed in a t-shirt emblazoned with the wonders of Orange Crush soda and invited me in to a hotel room occupied by himself, his father and his son. I am not ashamed to admit that I had to wipe clean a small patch of damp skin just above my cheekbone. Only just slightly damp.

I suspect it had never been published before. I can't go back and re-read it. I can't study it. He pulled it out from a little hidey-hole, this crumpled sheet of paper, unfolded it and then made me all soft. I've never wanted to rent a hotel room and spend the evening with my own father and son more so than I do just now. And if my own experience doesn't rhyme I might not even bitch about it.