2/3 train, Clark Street Station, March 10th, 2014
Even this New Yorker staff writer felt the pressure when asked to write a poem. “Can I have overnight?” I was about to agree but then he smiled and said. “I can do it now.” He’d signed a copy of Cheerful Money: Me, My Family, and the Last Days of Wasp Splendor and scribbled, “Happy to write a poem for you if we meet on the subway.”
Poem?
No’m.