Poem by Rob Lindquist One fine day in ’82, Old Swift, my friend, came in His hat was down, His duds were trim, He wore a level grin. Beneath his arm an envelope, Behind him, trailed his smoke He puffed upon his cigarette Before a word was spoke. “I’ve got some early photos Of the valley, long ago. Rufus made the copies They’re places we both know…” But, then, I interrupted; I told him there was news From a woman Swifty could not stand Who’d shared with me her views. She called me just that morning About our history group. With guileless pomp she stated How she would run our troupe.

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