To be told in print at age sixty-threethat you're not a poetbecause what you write aren't poems,isn't the help it might have beenat, say, twenty-three.Then perhaps you might have shaken the habit,tried booze or more sex to compensate,come out fairly unshaken.
Now, unfortunately, it's much too late,for better or for worse you're hooked,must ride the thundering horsehanging on any way you can:not the most graceful way to go,but even to be allowed to touch those great white flanksis a privilege and pleasure,which the little man with the quivering pencould never, never comprehend.
