I see this fellow occasionally on this particular train, and, while I know who he is, he hasn't any idea that I am a fellow poet. Awhile back I even wrote "Poet's Commute," about our coincidental journeys. He always talks to the person who plops into the seat beside him. And, so, this morning I made certain to sit across the aisle in a seat beside the far window. As there was no one else nearby (I suppose), my fellow poet attempted to engage me in conversation. He asked if I knew whether or not the Pats had won yesterday, which I confirmed they had. He wondered who they had beaten. I wasn't sure, but then recalled that it was the Bills from Buffalo. He moved on to the Celtics next, and, yes, I knew they'd won yesterday as well . . . against the Pistons.
Now, if I were not of the lonely poet tribe, I might have introduced myself. I'm certain we'd have had a fine conversation on things to do with poetry. And I could benefit by networking with other poets. Instead, I cut the budding conversation off like a gardener who doesn't really trust flowers. I tugged my headphones on, got the music going, and opened my journal to see if I'd gained any new ideas overnight on how to bring the draft of a poem to a reasonable conclusion.
And, throughout our ride, I felt a slight gnaw of regret that I am unwilling to be more sociable. Poetry writing is a self-reflective pursuit. It might be pleasant to know another poet, who happens to commute on the same line as I do. We could be like the bankers from State Street who I also see sometimes . . . discussing LIBOR and financial options . . . the way we might discuss enjambment and metrical strategies, or even whether Doc Rivers should work Gabe Pruitt into the rotation in more games.
