Being SUMMONED to the great man's house (actually a townhouse) I was ushered in by his wraith of a wife to the sitting room where the great thoughts of the day would transpire. Being summoned for an afternoon of talk, of poetry-- I sat in the high-backed chair rigid-like an executee waiting for the juice . . . while the great man talked of politics, misalliances and the curious fortunes that had brought him to these shores.
I listened immobile (as was meet), but really I wanted to talk poetry: my poetry that I'd given for inspection- to reassure myself I was on my way to being great.
As the sun refracted through the faux french window the great man sensed this, and being not indisposed to an act of generosity, restored my parcel of poems with pencil-marked corrections (mostly punctuation) and a note that perhaps I might better exercise my talents in prose.
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