Robert Pinsky

The writer waxes poetic about his Inman Square neighborhood

Whether at his favorite deli or stopping by the small hardware store, Robert Pinsky feels right at home in Inman Square. "I love this neighborhood. I'm patriotic about it. It's pluralistic, heterogeneous. (Wiqan Ang for the Boston Globe)

His creative writing class at Boston University ended an hour ago, and Robert Pinsky is hungry. The former United States poet laureate is in the mood for a "serious sandwich," which means a trip to the All Star Sandwich Bar in Inman Square, where he lives.

"I have high standards for Reubens," says the handsome scribe, settling into a corner table. "There may be one deli in Brookline that I like, but other than that it's hard to find a good New York deli . . . this fits."

It's high noon on a Monday, and the orange and blue restaurant with an East Village vibe is buzzing.

As a lifelong professor, Pinsky, who has published a dozen poetry and prose books, has lived in many college towns. Inman Square reminds him of Berkeley, Calif., circa 1980 - although the sunny nature of the West Coast denizens he came in contact with annoyed him.

"They have a pride in fresh food, produce, wine that was an irritant for me," he says, his gray-green eyes twinkling.

"People there say to you, 'How do you like the Bay Area? Isn't it great?' "

His eyes widen.

"I'm an East Coaster. Here we have the worst traffic, worst mosquitoes; I'm glad to be back." He's dressed in professorial grays, blues, and browns and leans in close to talk, even asking the waiter to lower the music so he can hear every word.

Pinsky has lived in an Inman Square Victorian for eight years with his wife, a psychoanalyst, while teaching graduate-level writing at BU. Between teaching and speaking engagements in Vermont, Canada, you name it, he can be found running errands or grabbing a bite to eat in this burgeoning gourmet ghetto.

"I love this neighborhood. I'm patriotic about it. It's pluralistic, heterogeneous; I like the mix and the food. There's a fish market; Punjabi Dhaba; a great Mexican restaurant, Ole, where they make guacamole at your table."

Growing up in Long Branch, N.J., next door to Asbury Park, a city of ruin according to Bruce Springsteen songs, Pinsky laments the loss of small-town America.

"Small towns are no longer the center. They were once central, now nothing. It's endemic."

He looks out the window at the midday bustle on Cambridge Street: "I like streets," he says. "This is a real street.

"You've got a bank, pharmacy, you can pick up dry cleaning, get a takeout sandwich from a good deli, it is all here."

Enthusiastically polishing off his cheesy, gloppy Reuben on buttery toast and pickle, the fit 67-year-old cracks: "This means lots of treadmill time."

Pinsky visits Chris Schlesinger's All Star Sandwich Bar once or twice a week for pastrami on rye, but he says he never really hangs out. "Everything circles around writing for me," he says. "I have writing in my family, very good friends who write, my writing is everything."

Even when he's talking to you, he's working on a poem, he says. But you wouldn't know it. His aura is more intense than dreamy. "I don't think of it as an addiction. It's one of my greatest pleasures, getting work done. It's an innocent pleasure; it's fun."

We leave the sandwich shop and walk the short block to Inman Square Hardware so Pinsky can buy bulbs for his porch light, passing Bukowski's on the way. Does he ever grab a beer there?

"It's a children's bar," he says, then dismisses the writer it's named after in the same breath. "He's a children's writer, good for 15-year-old boys."

Inside the tidy store, which could fit inside two Home Depot aisles, he heads for the light bulb section. When he finally finds the model he's after, it's too high to reach, so he grabs a stepladder and climbs up.

"I like this place because you still hear Portuguese," he says, rounding the corner to the paintbrush aisle.

His home was recently broken into, and he has to change the locks and add some spackle where a new alarm was installed. He drops off a key to be duplicated at the front counter.

On his way home, he detours into the 1369 Coffeehouse on the corner for an espresso. A girl in a dress and cowboy boots sitting on the bench outside gives him a smile. Whether she recognizes him or not is unclear. He rarely gets fawned over in this low-key warren of streets between Central and Union squares.

"To be a well-known actor, singer, you are kind of cursed," he says, nursing his shot outside on a wooden bench.

To hang with Pinsky is to know that words matter. And not just words, but sounds. He rolls them around in his throat, forward and backward.

And then, just like a seasonal haiku, he is gone.