There beside the parking lot of the apartment building where his girlfriend and her sister live, where the mighty Pewaukee slows to a respectful pace, Gordon Weaver will read five of my poems, by way of declaiming spring in Wisconsin. I am told that Al Learst will attend.
I mean, yeah, it’s just my dad and his friends boozing it up on a Sunday afternoon, but it just sounds so cool. An honor I do not take lightly, knowing what I know about his lifelong devotion to literature and criticism.
Thanks, Dad. I hope they like ’em.