The Southern Review, January 1st, 2000
That old man--tramping down Flatbush Avenue-- with a cane, white beard, light-brown tunic and gray felt trooper hat--that was you-- Walt--just like your picture--when you held court in Camden--avuncular, garrulous, and ruddy-- I was climbing up the avenue--where it runs between the zoo and the botanical gardens-- one of those "ample hills of Brooklyn"-- Why didn't I follow you? Why didn't I stop and go back down with you? Something kept me in check as I hiked toward the library--to finish my thesis on you--You came to turn me around--there you were--within a foot of me--here on the streets we...
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