Howard Fencl is vice president for crisis communications firm Hennes Communications in Cleveland, Ohio, where he can watch peregrine falcons from his Tower City office. Over the last three decades, he’s been everything from assistant news director at WKYC-TV to president of one of the first internet service providers in Northeast Ohio to director of communications for The New Cleveland Campaign to guitarist and songwriter for the band Boho Zen. He has asked Mohammed Ali what it was like to meet the Beatles and interviewed the guy who watched over Ted William’s frozen, decapitated head. Howard always has something up his sleeve (though not doves—yet). He speaks Russian, can whip up an imitation Mounds bar, knows what beer to drink with a steamed bun, and rules his front porch with his wife and high-school sweetheart, Sue. It seems fitting to me that Howard chose to read this particular poem, considering what he does and what he’s done.
Howard with his maternal grandfather, a tailor. Howard says: "He died in 1965 when I was 8 years old. He would get on his treadle sewing machine and whip me up custom fitted clothes—I still have two vests he made for me. No pattern. I always felt he was magic."