closing time around 2 a.m. in my small room after turning off the poem machine for now I continue to light cigarettes and listen to Beethoven on the radio. I listen with a strange and lazy aplomb, knowing there’s still a poem or two left to write, and I feel damn fine, at long last, as once again I admire the verve and gamble of this composer now dead for over 100 years, who’s younger and wilder than you are than I am. the centuries are sprinkled with rare magic with divine creatures who help us get past the common and extraordinary ills that beset us. I light the next to last cigarette
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