I recently found myself
in
one of those uniquely writerly situations
in which I was introduced
as a writer
to
another writer—

“My condolences,” I said
to the writer.

My condolences . . .

There you go,
I thought. Stealing from Hank Moody,
slinging his words
as if they were your own.

The writer
didn’t seem to catch
my plagiarism

Or perhaps
she just didn’t want to acknowledge
the allusion
as that would mean
she
like me
watches Californication
when
she should be doing
this.