October 27, 1989

　　by Ed Ochester

　　 He was in a hotel in Baltimore

　　 in a suburb near Johns Hopkins. He would

　　 give a talk there， and they would pay him for it.

　　 It was night， and he was alone； sirens were racing

　　 up and down the streets. The room was very large.

　　 Most of what he had wished as a boy was to write poems，

　　 to have some power with the word， to be paid

　　 for talking. Don't smile， please. He wanted

　　 to be put in a beautiful room like this.

　　 Bonnie would pick him up in an hour. He saw

　　 out the picture window a few men in trenchcoats

　　 walking toward the parking lot， and beyond that

　　 headlights and taillights on a freeway a mile

　　 or so away. He'd been reading Carver's last book

　　 of poems， reading "Gravy" and the other valedictories.

　　 He remembered Carver a few years before his death，

　　 kidding about his prosperity， kneeling before his Mercedes

　　 and waving a fistful of dollars， because he was so amazed，

　　 he supposed， to have them， that good man， whose last poems，

　　 written in the knowledge of imminent death， said

　　 love the world， don't grieve overmuch， listen to people.

　　 The beautiful room was a good place to read； he'd finished

　　 the book （for the second time） at the pine desk， where

　　 the indirect white light hurt his eyes. He didn't think

　　 he'd ever be as famous as Carver， but who could tell？

　　 He was sorry the man was dead； there was nothing

　　 he could do about that， but he was sorry for it.

　　 He got up to look out the picture window. He could

　　 see the red spintops of some cops' cars. Other than that

　　 nothing special： in the entrance courtyard a lone cabbie

　　 smoked a cigarette； spotlights shone up through the yellow

　　 foliage of a clump of maples. A few slow crickets.

　　 He had everything he really wanted， he had learned

　　 that friends， like love， couldn't save him