The Preserver

My office phone rings; some student says
his English teacher gave him my name,
told him I was a real writer. I’m wondering
what new-ex-friend ratted me out. The kid
rambles on, says he needs help; he can’t stop
writing; he says, words keep flowing like blood
from a deep gash; this craziness is ruining
his life, consuming him whole, he’s at 500
pages and running. Jesus, I think, he wants
me to read this thing, but he just keeps talking,
tells me he’s not the literary type, reads
the box scores in the paper, that’s all,
but now this. He’s so scared, he saw
a shrink who asked him about his mother
and gave him pills that put him to sleep.

I ask him what genre he’s working in.
I figure if it’s prose, I can weasel out.
He says he has no idea what I’m talking
about. I say, You know is it a story
or a poem.  He says, It’s not like that;
it’s more like a universe. He asks
what he should do. I’m stumped,
but I tell him, Keep writing, this must
be happening for a reason. He thanks me,
but I can sense his desperation as the line
goes dead. I wonder if I did the right thing,
but I think there is a chance that in some new
and slightly askew universe, I am Vishnu,
the Preserver, at least until Shiva shows up
and teaches the kid about second drafts.