This morning, I drove about an hour northwest of Lincoln to Dwight, population 250. The town is a small grid of roads, settled off a cornfield. I heard Ted Kooser writes his poems in this town, in an old brick store front filled with fake flowers. It wasn't hard to find his building. I looked in the windows and saw the fake flowers in the quiet dark room. An early morning writer, he must have come and gone hours before I showed up.
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