Pure pageantry, how publishers' banners
wave over tents. Flocks of readers graze
on glossy trades, leaflets, hardcovers
and chapbooks. My friend, a true gent, stays
his ground. Maybe, it is the press of page;
Its forthright weave petitions for slants,
favors unique fonts, yet gilds no edge,
sees no need for illustration, just verdant
language. I did not intend to read
over his shoulder. He grins good-naturedly,
tweed makes an allowance. Each line, poetry,
he praises and I still my chatter. We feed
on gems, unrushed, but their brilliance spurs
a verbose woman and a man of his word.
*For David, a wonderful man, a devoted husband,
a loving and dedicated father. We know him here
as a poet who encourages, shares of himself freely,
and gives such solid advice.
He is a poet who does not waste words,
nor mince them. but he does send them out,
like lifeboats, when he spots chums in need.
Think the world of you, David.
I kidnapped David with a time machine.
The Word on the Street is a bookfair which
was held in Victoria park but is now held
downtown. SIGH. It was much nicer in the park,
early September. The squirrels would natter
from the trees, geese would fly by, low, aiming
for the pond
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