One night in the cab I pulled up to an intersection on The Hill, and someone on the street recognized me.
“Jonny!” he pointed.
It was a guy who went to the open mic. We had never hung out or really even talked much before. He performed. I performed. That was it.
He motioned for me to roll down the window. I rolled down mine, and he shook his head.
“No,” he said and pointed to the passengers in the backseat, “roll down theirs.”
I did and then he stuck his head in their window.
“Your driver” he pointed at me, “is THE best poet in Boulder.”
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