I met Gager about twenty years ago. Back then he was a different man, a different poet, and a different writer. My small press, Ibbetson Street, published his first book of poetry, The Same Corner of the Bar. Now, twenty years later Gager is not in the same corner. On the front cover of his seminal book, one can see a hungover Gager8213with a bottle of booze on his bed, and, beside him, a comely blonde in the midst of her drunken slumber. The older Gager I know now would be more likely looking through some nocturnal window8213into the deep recesses of his own soul. During those earlier years, Gager was a well-oiled alcoholic which he makes no bones about revealing, was not in touch with himself, and was distracted from his surroundings. His poetry had a raw, Bukowski-style punch8213 with slivers of light around the edges. Gager, at that time was still fairly young8213in his mid-30s8213and was beginning his long road to recovery. The years have left an impact on his writing. from the In