Veranda
The renowned poet sat on the veranda with his wife, entertaining another couple they’d known for years. He was in fine form this particular evening. Funny and humble.Careful not to dominate or overwhelm. A presence like the moon. The air was respectfully elegiac and, as long as the breeze kept its wits, not too chilly. His wife had just refilled his gin. Suddenly one came to him. He put down his glass. And then, with an abruptness that might strike the uninitiated as rude, he rose and quickly dashed into his study and proceeded to spend the next 25 minutes getting down what he could. Enough to make something of it later. When he returned he was met with reverent adoring eyes. As if they had witnessed a miracle. To have been present at ground zero of some great emergence. Oh stop all this nonsense, he said. You mustn’t think that way. You’ve got it all wrong. Think of it simply as watching a man take his medicine. Should I get all misty eyed when Hank over there decides to throw back a couple viagras? It’s just medicine, he said, once the laughing died away. AND YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE ME IF I DON'T TAKE MY MEDICINE, he roared. And everyone laughed and laughed. And the night continued on apace in good cheer and friendly bonhomie and the poet lingered on the veranda, always the last to leave, ever vigilant to guard the thing which, all too briefly, belonged solely to him. Later on, after another Bombay on the rocks, he took out the word “renowned”.
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