the new york experience.

i was writing poetry on an oriental rug
sheraton hotel
drinking sweet red wine
graciously paid for by publishers and editors
of magazines i didn't yet have venom to spite.

earlier, i had "world famous" cheesecake
at lindy's. before that, a cold pickle
from an old barrel.

later, james tate would dismiss a horn-rimmed
tweed as too read,
i'd cry in a hallway after a reading
that made me question the pen
and long for deep, dark, honest philadelphia
if she'd have me back.

i had written some of my better lies that night.