"Huh?"
"I mean, other professions have gobs of it. Like whores. You got your 'Maggie, A Girl of the Streets'--"
"Stephen Crane?"
"Uh huh. You got your 'Pretty Woman', your 'Best Little Whorehouse in Texas---"
"Sure, but aren't you forgetting C.W. McCall, 'Over the Top', 'B.J. and the Bear'?? Be fair now."
"All right. But it's all trash. Where is our poetry?" "Got me there."
He handed me a pencil and paper. "Rich, do you think, maybe, you could just write me a little something? You know, I could keep it in my wallet, like a prayer."
"Oh all right, you big lug you. Gimme that."
Five minutes later I gave him this:
Squint: It will be light soon, I hope it's soon. The heat is rippling Off the road And the water I see On the horizon Is water I can never Own."Rich" he says. "I don't know poetry, but I know what I like. Thanks." "Not a prob."