meeting with a poet in oldtown san diego

I was thinking "Mission Hills" when I turned into the district of old town. The smell of tortilla masa poked me chest and said, hey man, you are far from home.

But I wasn't.

I was meeting a poet cat I know, and he was reading Octavio's Eagle or Sun?

We talked the talk. What's the name of that po-daddy poem you wrote back when? And fucking politics (or was it politiks?). Did you hear what happened to so and so. Yeah, poetry is a real drag right now. No, I can't remember the last time I bought a book of verse? Did that poem ever get published? Hell no.

And we drank the drank. Water's always good for starters, but Modelo is always good for finishers.

And we parted ways. Me, up the coast of cars. Him, on the city bus.