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51 K ate G ale Dry Sandwiches He cuts his sandwich, gives half to me. Eat it. Between neat moustache and white face, handsome as a statue, his mouth moving. His words slide around the table. I am a poet from Columbia University. I sip tea in the small box of air around my head. He rubs soft hands. I don’t want to discuss poetry with a beautiful woman. I want to enjoy the woman. I taste the wretched dry sandwich. My poems sit in their folder, legs closed like young girls who do not know what they are doing. Please, I say, I must go. But he hopes to see me again. So we can talk more. He expects me to call, so he can talk more to a beautiful woman. I am not. I am squeezed between the yellow covers of the folder. I am silent. ...

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