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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2195373
Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Mystery · #2195373
I sit down to lunch with my favorite author.
Mostly I listened, disconnected
from the everyday reality I am
familiar with, to the
smooth-paced delivery of
Mark Twain, my wish-
granted author now
seated across from me
at Bogies Bar and Grill.
“When is the end of the
world?” he asked, a
wry smile barely 
recognizable beneath
a full white mustache.
“Good question, sir,” said I,
feeling frail.  Ah, there are 
possibilities in a diminishing
season
, I thought, to be here,
to hear Twain
; the back of
my neck bold with summer.
Lunch a mere disruption; 
Oh, we savored it among
witticisms, mostly
from Mark.  In vain
I tried matching wits—me,
a lowly shadow in a thicket, 
steeped in gracious liberty.
We did, eventually, get
around to smart phones
and such, after intense
observations of humanity.   
My condition fine, 
my lunch time a joy,
yet mystery apparently
was seen in my face—
perhaps my furrowed brow. 
“Listen to the rhythm,” said
Twain, sipping his beer,
a twinkle in his eye;
“The rhythm of
  of mystery.”


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Winner
7-10-19
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2195373