when you’re going at it at 43 you’ve got to figure there’s a little something twisted in your head, but that’s o.k.—another smoke, another drink, another woman in your bed, and the sidewalks are still there and the worms and the flies and the sun; and it’s a man’s own business if he’d rather fiddle with a poem than invest in real estate, and eleven poems are good, glad you found so many. The curtains wave like a flag over my country and the beer is tall.
