I’m up, with my ear to the universe again
listening and waiting for Fagen.
I stare at his latest portrait;
his graying stubble and well worn lines,
the wicked double waves of his protruding lips.
I study the backgrounds of his photographs;
try to make out the titles of the books on his shelves,
the tiny models of buildings, the ornate clock on his desk.
I pore over the precise way he holds his…
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