I am invited to visit the senior poet. His room seems bare and filled to bursting at the same time. Old newspapers and printed junk everywhere. A chair filled with makeup, roses and other supposedly feminine paraphernalia. He greets me at the door with the odor of someone who has been drinking for a long, long time. Are all artists this way? (Hell, no!) He has the smell of drinking and vomiting on yourself, of drinking so much that you sweat Scotch. Strange. He makes himself so ugly. He is too pot-bellied for the shirt he has pulled across his stomach. The shirt is brown with brown print. All in all, it is a strange monotone appearance, but he wants to use four of my poems in the magazine! “Aunt Abbie,” “For Diana Dancing,” “Untitled,” and “Deaconess.” Right on!