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Show HOLD ON for James Wright In the days when I used to sit huddled with all the young men in the livingroom of a poet, the walls flecked with book covers framed and under glass, I spoke with you once. As the poet talked from deep within his chair, his hand thickening the air like a spoon, the telephone rang and I answered it because I was buried far back towards the foyer nearer to the kitchen where the decor is always simple and sentimental. It was you, long distance, having just finished something and finding yourself with no one to read it to, because Annie, who hid the booze, had just stepped out. |