My attic apartment at 702 Locust Street in Kalamazoo was a perfect place to hone my writing skills. At $40 a month it was affordable, too. I supported my poetic growth working construction during the summers, and shelved books at the university library during the winters.
As I mentioned last month, the laundromat next door became a successful muse for me. Three seasons of the year there was usually a small gathering out front. I imagined it into a fictional hippie type coffeeshop with a fire hydrant waitress who never waited on us.
On the other side of the laundromat was a little blond brick church with a colorful congregation I’ll call Holy Rollers. Their Sunday evening gatherings could be quite entertaining.
The church door was always open. I liked to sit close by on the sidewalk and listen. One night a young woman was overcome by the spirit and started talking in tongues. She was escorted out of the church and down the street past me and two friends still in her trance. That was impressive.
Sometimes I fantasize about returning to my attic apartment and visiting for a week. But I’d probably get bored. All my friends have long scattered in all directions. The laundromat and little church are closed now.
At 702 Locust Street there’s no Stone Circle out my writing room window. In the midst of its 42nd year the circle is one of the oldest outdoor poetry venues in the United States. And there’d be no deer meandering around the meadow our house sits in. As Steve Miller sings, “Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future.”
However, in poems you can save moments of time that stand out. I’d like to time travel back and share two prose poems from my “Locust Street Laundromat” chapbook. I’d purchased a copy machine to print my poems and self-publish them.
My poems and name were getting around. It was my first literary success. I was even invited back to Western Michigan University to read the collection.