Never hailed as a lover, ah but to start it once again with the scent of Berryman on his nose, ever oily,
that much he knew of great literature was hard to wash off. It was usually important for him to feel like
he wrote something of interest after a day's work, when he would slow to a rolling stop on
Jackson. Often there was a car in the spot in front of the house due to the hot weather and the public pool
that sat across the street. But, yes, set at seventy degrees, he sat and typed up something amusing now and
again. When asked what he wrote about, a question he thought shouldn't be asked of poets, he responded
with answers he had heard other poets use and proved somewhat effective in getting people to "ah" and nod
and shut up. The city, mostly, the city, the sex, what little there was, of both, in landmass and population
compared to greater cities and greater sex never far off. Of love, or luv, whichever seems more real.
Whichever seems less artificial. Past and present company and companies.


The conversations and the pauses.


The metal ladder he swung off from Amy's, slid, Jackie-style. Made her cry there. That was the first time.
It had brought them closer, he liked to believe. About Christian and the songs they play, "Hear the word of
God, hear the word of God, hear the word of God and obey it." About his crying, which was the second
time. It scared him sometimes to be seen with a crying child. It scared him to have once been that crying
child who was so lucky to get into the school he wanted.

In the middle of class, he looked over.
Three teachers at the
door, with the news.