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At the Reading, a Cell Phone Rings

Nicole Henares and her class at Poets with Trees Reading, 2007

It rings, in spite of the invitation to turn it off.  It rings during a TV taping session.  It rings in a memorial service, a funeral, a wedding, a concert.  It rings and rings.  Somehow a cell phone will triumph over all precautions.

It rings in the bowels of a handbag, hidden among keys and wallet and check books.  It rings in one of the pockets of a jacket. When it finally surfaces it demands to reveal the caller’s ID.  Before it is turned off, it gives off its last bit of sound.  Whooosh.  Goodbye.  Ding-a-ling-ling.

Nicole Henares brought her high school English class to the Poets with Trees Reading.  My nephew Jonathan was in her class.  He arrived, to my delight, with his father (my step-brother John) to the Sutro Heights Park.  Jonathan and his classmates picked out a tree, decorated it and began their reading.  In the middle of Jonathan’s reading John’s cell phone began to ring.

“Hello.”  He said.  It was his wife.  They spoke, trying to work out some logistics in transporting their other children from one activity to another.

Johnathan kept reading his poem.  John kept talking on the phone.  Father’s voice.  Son’s voice.

“DADDY!”  Jonathan, frustrated, stopped reading.  We waited.

“Oh, I have to go now.  Jonathan is reading.”  Did John realize he had been seduced?

Yes.  The cell phone has that kind of power.

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The Poet’s Potluck

Poets with Trees at Sutro Heights Park

Cooking, like putting carrots and lentils together with purple onions, juxtaposing colors and textures, infusing liquid and spices, gives me immense pleasure.  Once a month I get a chance to impose my taste on my friends.  Sometimes they have to suffer through failed experiments, but that’s the nature of alchemy.

The Sunday salon potluck is always a spontaneous affair.  Regulars like Steve Mackin always brings a fine cake, Stephanie Manning comes with her trusty cheese and crackers, Dan Brady with dips and chips and Carlos Ramirez, fruits, and sometimes flowers.  Food appears and disappears on the table.  Poets are hearty eaters.

My stepmother came to one of the poet’s potlucks at the Sutro Heights Park in 2006.  Being a traditional Chinese woman she wanted to make sure everyone was well fed and made a big tray of soy-sauce chicken legs.  She watched with surprise delight as the tray was promptly emptied.  She didn’t understand the poems, but she understood the smiles and thank yous and the handshakes she received that day.

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