Ode to a Bonnet

Apparently, it's easier than I realized to be a poet's muse.

After sleeping in my own bed for the first time in a week last night, I got up raring to go for my daily walk for the first time in as long.

Feeling the need to properly baptize my legs in the James River, I then headed back up the hill hoping to catch the end of Tea for Two, an outdoor poetry reading in the park behind the main library.

Impressed to see how many people were already there, I found a seat in the back on a bench between two men to hear Henry Hart read poems about his daughter before she could speak, his son's difficult birth and his father's Christmas tree farm.

"You're going to be sick of my family by the time I finish reading," he joked.

Closing with a poem about retracing his grandfather's expedition across the Gobi desert, he spoke of being lost, threatened and moved by the trip.

Applause followed and then the man to my right looked at me and unexpectedly said, "I'm going to write a poem about you and your bonnet."

The "bonnet" to which he referred is my sun hat, a necessity lately with these long river walks I've been doing.

Not sure why I was so inspiring, so I asked.

Come to find out he's a sports writer in town for today's NASCAR race who'd left his hotel room to go for a walk and been drawn in by the shady park, nice looking crowd and free coffee.

But as he listened to poetry, he was unsettled by the beeping of a truck backing up, the roar of a Harley blasting down Main Street and other jarring sounds.

He said just as he was thinking that a grace note was needed, "A pretty woman in a bonnet and Nikes showed up and sat down next to me. You will be the subject of my next poem."

We introduced ourselves and I learned he was from northern Virginia, a former USA Today baseball writer who now freelances.

He said that the good thing about NASCAR drivers is that they're far more willing to talk to the press than pro team athletes.

I wished him good luck with the race. He thanked me for showing up and providing the muse for a poem.

On the way home, I stopped to pick up my Fall Line Fest wristband on Broad Street and ran into my friend Andrew.

Telling him my poetry story, he shook his head, laughing. "Only you, Karen, these things only happen to you."

I know, but aren't I lucky for it?