Summer 1992
Whisper rhythmic, I push south through a crowd
in Washington Square Park, angling toward
LaGuardia and Rozillio’s, proud
to be alive now, going to hear James
Dickey read, breathing in schizoid flames
of exhaust and stifling wind as I frame
words I’ll say to him: How, back years ago,
I’d end my Little Rock radio show’s
intro with The Performance’s sad close;
how on first playing his Caedmon’s Falling
I yelped like a pained pup: my applauding
his deep-gut “Ahhh, God!”…But he’s not coming…
stalled by a love’s illness…Hearing this, I
feel sand grind in my gut, like when I cried
the night Frank told me our father had died.
Roger Armbrust
August 1, 2001
