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99 f r o m t e n t m a k i n g f i n e a r t s a u d i t o r i u m for Bill Stafford Between your four o’clock afternoon poetry reading and dinner at the Chinese-Jewish deli called Chow Goldberg, we stop here at my house. You said you like to see where poets live. Lots of uh-huh and looking down the basement steps and along the bookshelves. As we stood in the kitchen having a glass of water, you took the steel wool and Comet and poured some of your water over the top of my stove. Slowly the burner rims grew chromy again. After supper we went to a student dance concert. You went justifiably to sleep, and when you saw me mock-reproachfully looking as you jogged awake, you did that downturned mouth-shrug and little headback motion I don’t know where we all got. My father did it. Stan Laurel, somebody, taught it to us. You broke open your tickled face with the wise Mongolian • • • 100 f r o m t e n t m a k i n g eyes, and I whispered,“This would be a nice place for a dance.”You got solemn and nodded sort of head-tilted, then let the silent laughing loose anyone could learn from to end up with. ...

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