Lucille comes out to her porch. She’s taking the trash out or checking a burnt light bulb or else just looking at the night. I swear it’s like she’s timed it, like she knows when I’m coming each night: “Well, good evening,” she says; “Hi,” I say. Neither one of us admits to the farce.
Check out Rumpus contributor Lauren Quinn’s introspective fantasy friendships with poets at This Recording, where she drinks coffee with Roberto Bolaño, dines with Lucille Clifton, and flirts with Jim Carroll.
