H.W. Longfellow called me last night from a phone booth

somewhere in the downtown area.

It was rainy and cold and as far as I could tell he needed

a place to stay for the night. I said I was busy and hung up.

but he called back saying: “let me come over and I’ll tell you

what a poem is.

I've never taken the time to read his stuff outside of grade school,

but he's well-known and I saw this as an opportunity to get in on the action.

“ok. come-up.–– but wipe your feet.”

Longfellow was drenched, his hair was a natty mess and he smelled

like a damp kitchen sponge after a month’s use.

“so gimme the goods, Hank! what’s a poem?”

he stared into space for a moment and murmured: “anything writ which ends in:

“my feet show it, they’re Longfellows” is a poem.”

I kicked his ass out into the cold rainy night and an admirable sociological history. 

the end.