And it came to pass

I was to drive Barry Spacks

to the Ojai Poetry Festival

me, a poet peon, and he,

well, Barry Spacks.

And yet I sensed perfection

forgiveness in advance

that we would talk,

or not,

without unease

that he would feel elation

at my waxed-for-the-occasion,

well worn car, and

should it break down

on the side of that

tree lined

winding highway

the detour

would be our destination

so I stood outside his house

trusting he would see me

translating the language

of his meandering garden.

He wore a suit and tie

to make a good impression.


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