The Moose, the Tree, and the Irish Writer

After they had the stew going and Tabby's brownies were on the stove cooling along with the biscuits they went into the living room and sat down.

"I am tired already." She said curling her bare feet under her on the couch.

"You will be feeling the effects of the wreck for a few days I imagine." Viggo said shifting into a more comfortable position in his chair.

Tabby looked down and started to laugh.

"What?" He asked looking down at himself praying his fly wasn’t open.

"Viggo...you do so need a woman in your life...look at your socks." She was giggling by this time and he looked down and noticed two holes in one sock and one in the other.

"They are comfortable thank you very much." He said trying to sound miffed but unable to suppress the laughter.

"You said you wrote poetry...can I read some of it?" She asked after the laughter faded.

"Sure." He said and got up and walked across the room.

He grabbed a small book off the shelf and handed it to her. "Here, it's several years old but has some of my favorites."

She sat down and started flipping thru the pages and stopped at one of the poems. She started reading it;

Last Leg
After driving the first forty miles of the morning
you accused me of ignoring you.
Now I'm waiting for the next volley
but it isn't coming.
I've been thinking for an hour since
and I don't know what you meant.
All you probably wanted was to trade a few words.
I didn't.
My mind has been on road things.
I see that the ocotillo is greening,
the sage looks like new.
Crows everywhere.
Some of the washes are wet
and there's a three-day grass mantle
on the highway shoulder.
Even the cottonwoods show signs
of waking up.
But now that you've accused me
I don't feel like mentioning these things.
Or the road kills.
Or the Colorado,
which we just crossed
as you bore down on yet another postcard.
Maybe you're right,
maybe this silence is oppressive -
indicating some great underlying disorder.
But the year is just beginning
and this car is running perfect.

She chuckled and then looked up at him. "This is wonderful, quite good." She smiled. “We Irish do love our poets.”

"Thanks...from a fellow writer and Irish one at that I appreciate it. Though I am certainly no Keats." He said smiling.

"I wouldn't say my writing is in this caliber...poetry it is not. I...I write romance novels, Viggo...nothing high brow or as respectable as poetry at all." She said looking down and tugging at a loose string on her jeans.

"What's wrong with romance novels?" Viggo asked.

"You don't think it's silly?" She asked surprised.

"Not in the least...if it's what you enjoy...do it. If I didn't enjoy my poetry I wouldn't write it...I don't write it to sell books I write it for myself." Viggo said his blue gray eyes looking right into hers.

She smiled at him. "I wish everyone felt the way you do...my parents believe I have wasted my education."

"Are you successful?" He asked.

"Yes, yes I am." She said nodding.

"Does it pay the bills?" He asked seriously.

"Yes, more than pays them." She admitted.

"Then how exactly do your parents describe success?" Heed aed as he sat his wine glass down on the table beside his chair.

"I guess they just expected something more scholarly. If I were like you, a poet, that they could respect." She admitted tugging again at the string.

"Yes but being a poet doesn’t really pay the bills. Your novels make people y, Ty, Tabby, regular everyday people right?" Viggo asked.

"Yes, I suppose so." She said looking up at him.

"Then who cares? So you aren't Shakespeare...he was a joke in his day as well if you recall." Viggo said smiling at her.

She laughed and said, "Never quite thought about it that way."

Viggo looked across the room at the clock on the desk across the room..."Dinner should be ready, you hungry?"

"Starved." She said as he pulled her up from the c.<§ .