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Dancing at the Gold Monkey by Allen Learst YOU CAN'T SLEEP WITH YOUR BEST FRIEND'S WIFE and not feel anything, even when his wife's left him, and she wants to sleep with you. You can’t, but you do. You know there’s no wisdom in this. At Gabe’s Bar, Mick says, “Let’s go up north.” You never lived up north, owned a dog or a gun, but you do now. You keep a .45 in the glove box, and when you leave the bar, Detroit’s a shadow skirting the edges of pavement and chrome. “Where’s the wisdom?” you ask your friend.
Barbara Lightner is a 73-year old shameless agitator, retired. She grew up in rural Tennessee among sharecroppers and cotton magnates, hard scrabble farmers and one aristocrat. Writing poetry in law school became her escape from the intolerable burden of injustice by law. Her poetry has appeared in Verse Wisconsin, Poesia, the Table Rock Review, New Verse News, Occupy Poetry, and the anthologies Letters to the World and So You Want to be a Memoirist. Several of her poems will be set to music by composer Larry Alan Smith.