Twenty Minutes
It's not 1948, Pepsi in paper cups,
foot-long hot dogs, window trays at fast-
food drive ins, and outdoor movies,
getting each other going in the back seat
of a Dodge. It's the front seat of your Honda
after beers in the parking lot of a midtown
bookstore where the local public access
TV crew tries to prove poetry alive and well
in this part of the Deep South, miles from
Flannery's wise blood, Faulkner's small town
square, the spirits, demons and dulcimers
of that pied piper, James Dickey, who might
have approved of us, might have said Yes!
Go for it! and for twenty ecstatic minutes,
we did. Now, in the charged air of chance
meetings, you ask, "Shall we ever?" and
I fall back into twenty minutes of
paradise--their immortal possibilities.
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