And speaking of oral communication: Lately I’ve been thinking about a Chicago paramedic pal who was a great storyteller, and also claimed to be a poet.
“I think of poems all the time,” Ed Reardon said one night in Laschet’s tavern. “I make ’em in my head. But once I think a poem, I never feel like writing it down. It’s there! It’s in my head! It’s done!”
Belaboring the point, I asked him why he didn’t just pick up a pencil and copy the thing down. He looked at me like a CEO being asked to take meeting minutes.
Then he winked.
“Some of these poems?” he nodded. “Pretty good.”
Ed died five years ago last month. I guess we’ll have to take his word on it.