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.