Levine used to say if you remember one of his readings
that Donald Justice had never seen
a worker, and Justice who had practiced his childhood piano
on one of Miami’s old streets
could recall a sunburned man with a bucket of masonry trowels
who had walked by the porch window of his piano teacher
one summer at the end of a lesson hour, his red hair
stiffened by mortar.
Published in the October 20, 2017 issue: View Contents
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