I Knew an Eccentric by Helen Conkling

Helen Conkling

I Knew an Eccentric by Helen Conkling

T.

I haven’t seen a lot of people in a long time. Good friends, people I love — I think I only see them once a year. J. tells me I’ve taken to being a hermit too much. Should I change? Even my father, the other day, notes how I seemed to detest human contact. Who knows. Somewhere inside my head, Dennis Hopper is alive, saying, “Poor people are crazy, Jack. I’m eccentric.”

I Knew an Eccentric

Helen Conkling

I once knew an eccentric electrician.

We had a lot in common.

He wrote poetry and I did.

We both liked pasta.

His poems were complex.

Reading them was like riding a funnel-shaped wind inward.

Finally, I said, “Don’t show me any more of them

and don’t keep talking about unknown galaxies

and how small we are.

I already know that,” I said.

“And fragile,” he added.

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