meeting of minds
A pretty African lady put her hand on my arm as I strolled through the Whitewater Centre this afternoon.
"Excuse me," she said, "are you..."
My little heart thrilled.
"Doctor Healy's brother?"
I stared at her with the look of a man who is staring and not quite able to stop staring.
It would have been too easy to cry out:
"I am not Doctor Healy's brother. I am the poet James Healy. I am the finest mind of a generation."
Modesty prevented me from doing this.
Instead I nodded and smiled.
"He's a great doctor," said she.
"Try living with him," said I.
We parted having understood each other.
"Excuse me," she said, "are you..."
My little heart thrilled.
"Doctor Healy's brother?"
I stared at her with the look of a man who is staring and not quite able to stop staring.
It would have been too easy to cry out:
"I am not Doctor Healy's brother. I am the poet James Healy. I am the finest mind of a generation."
Modesty prevented me from doing this.
Instead I nodded and smiled.
"He's a great doctor," said she.
"Try living with him," said I.
We parted having understood each other.
posted by heelers | 12:45 AM
2 Comments:
Ah, speaking of Doctor Barn....one hopes he has been consulted by now, hmmmm????
I'm sure he has to put up with young ladies coming up to him all the time and saying,
'Aren't you the brother of Ireland's greatest living poet?' And I'm sure he doth reply,
'Yes, but you try living with him.'
No Schnee, he just has to put up with me saying it! A lot!
J
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