School of Art Institute of Chicago. Fifty or so people are sitting in uncomfortable folding chairs facing a lectern. On lectern are two bottles of Southern Comfort. On a chair nearby, facing audience, sits a man with his head down, hunched into his shoulders. Some recognize him as Alan Dugan, 1961 winner of Yale Younger Poets Prize, author of Poems (the prize-winner), of subsequent Poems 2 in 1963 and a few other works, and winner of a Pulitzer Prize and a National Book Award. The face before us is much older-it is, after all, now more than two decades later-than that on jackets of two volumes, but it is recognizable, if lined, indeed cragged, and with a twist to mouth. The audience is very quiet as Dugan moves to microphone. He says something. The voice is hoarse, hardly audible, barely understandable, but heard-attention is focused, as in quiet moments just before a string quartet's recital. He reads some poems from Poems, and opens first of bottles. His movements are very slow. He says little between poems. Both Poems and Poems 2 are dedicated to Judy, his wife, daughter of photographer and painter Ben Shahn, and herself a painter. My wife went to high school with her and is here in part for that reason. Dugan turns up single-shot. think of Nelson Algren's story A Bottle of Milk for Mother, when Lefty Bicek complains that man he killed wouldn't buy a pint, like a citizen, but bought only those single-shots with his paycheck. Dugan reads some His voice grows stronger. He makes small jokes, mostly at his own expense. Now he stops, and looks around. Someone makes a request. He says: I don't like that one any more. He responds more favorably to a few other requests, but not to all. ask for the poem about guy floating down river, about Alexander Great. am ashamed that can't remember name of poem and apologize. He laughs, says something like, oh hell, no one can remember names of my poems. He shifts his body slightly, uncaps second single-shot and drinks it. Then he reads How We Heard Name, a poem have always found quite wonderful. He stops reading and autographs a few copies of his book, bought by people who must have been children, even babies, when he wrote poem.