SCRAPS
Last night I met the old poet. Not so old, really, his face smooth and broad. I asked for any
scraps—symbols to prompt my own writing. He reached into the pockets of his holey trench coat
and withdrew a fistful of trash: Starlight Mint wrappers, used napkins, faded gas receipts. I
thanked him and promised to send him the resulting poems. He said that he didn’t want to see
any poems but insisted that I mail him back his scraps.
scraps—symbols to prompt my own writing. He reached into the pockets of his holey trench coat
and withdrew a fistful of trash: Starlight Mint wrappers, used napkins, faded gas receipts. I
thanked him and promised to send him the resulting poems. He said that he didn’t want to see
any poems but insisted that I mail him back his scraps.
About the Author
Poet and songwriter David Rosenheim lives in a solar-powered house by the sea with his wife and two boys. The Weather Band, Hugh, and Winchester Revival have released his songs on seven critically lauded records, and his poetry has been published in many fine journals including the California Quarterly, The American Journal of Poetry, The Madison Review, The North Dakota Quarterly, The San Antonio Review, The Adirondack Review, Midwest Quarterly, The Dewdrop, Broadkill Review, Plainsongs, and Common Ground. He is a graduate of Oxford University.