The woman comes into the New York restaurant where I work

and is reading a poetry magazine. “Say,” I say, “is

that some sort of poetry magazine?” “Yeah,” she says.

“I like Billy Collins,” I say.

“Yeah?” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “But don’t you think Poetry is Dead, kinda?”

“Not really,” she says, and she gives me facts and

figures and numbers to prove her point, which I have

since forgotten. Then she asks me if I’ve read

that John Ashberry article, you know,

the one in The New Yorker? “Oh yeah,” I say, “that

was a great article! I liked how at the end there was

a flashback to when he was young and struggling, for I

myself am young and struggling.” The woman smiles

and picks at her pea salad with the dill yogurt dressing

on top. Then we talk about Billy Collins some more,

and then this woman says, “You should read Elizabeth

Bishop.” “Okay,” I say, “yeah, I know her, but only when

she gets her stuff published in The New Yorker. Published

from purgatory, rather – she’s dead, right?” The woman

smiles and says, “You’re a bit of poet yourself, aren’t you?”

“Oh jeez,” I say, and my face blooms crimson, “I wish.

But I don’t know. I don’t really write poems. They’re

more like, I don’t know – maybe I’m a storyteller, really.»