as I close a book
of poetry
the door slams on a miner
in Rio and a bus stops
to pick up two grandfathers
on a corner in MoscowI could have left the book
open on my desk so that
the miner would be home
on time though the grandfathers
might wait another hour
noses running hands
buried in thin pockets
I will re-open the
book
read the poem aloud
so the miner can hear jazz
rippling through smoke
and grandfathers
will dance down the street
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