Weekly Coffee with a Mentor
It was getting late in the afternoon of my weekly coffee with my mentor, a poet of some stature in his younger days. He was still affable, always quick with a quip, and his eyes always peering out the window as though searching for some new line of poetry.
He asked me if I were still writing, and I said I hadn't written much in the past few months. He said, "A writer who does not write is only fit for the madhouse." I knew he was loosely quoting Camus or Kafka, but I didn't ask because I needed to be heading home.
I left him at the table as someone came to take his coffee mug, and I consoled myself that at least he's in a place where he gets three meals a day and they make sure he doesn't hurt himself.
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