Yesterday I shared a ginger beer with my favorite poet writing. We sat outside, watching the traffic on Summit Avenue, and talked about Kansas, about Illinois. About Seattle and bookstores and travelling and where we'd like to travel and where we'd probably end up travelling instead. He told me about taking the ferry to McNeil Island prison and I told him about riding the Greyhound to Spokane and standing in line.
The poet's stories came as if out of his pocket, but the silence between us, as a dog scampers by and the late afternoon sun starts to glow the walls of the buildings around us, said a great deal also. I did not feel as if I was the student, though I have much to learn. We were just two poets, doing our jobs.
