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When Sirens Sang

Yes, I should have been a sailor
tossed over on the water
while Sirens sang
of quenching thirst
with pure salt-water brine.

Then perhaps I’d not recall
bitter aftertaste of
ill-spent days
and abundant wine.

But then again, to experience
a fraction of beauty
is to pursue it
blindly thereafter.

Poetry at La Salamandra

Chapter 11

The poster title reads, “Poetry at the La Salamandra.” What fun that show turns out. Still, I’m unaware of the redundant language in the title. Lots of friends help me on this one.

Along with the musical intermission, the event fills the night. The café audience helps with a warm response.

How clearly one might obtain an ulcer from endless arrangements of people and places, deadlines and changes becomes obvious by the time the show actually takes place. Last-minute details, convincing people to please show up, making sure people help with the door, hustling friends to let them know about the event, and on and on goes the business, all for a simple three-hour gathering.

Then one spring Saturday evening about 8 p.m., the show gets started. Dark-haired Maria from the Circus Commune, with flirtatious eyes and an out-front “go for it” manner of speaking, goes on first.

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