O n   B r o a d w a y

Sunlight had made it into the lounge of the gentrified
hotel and walking by windows I would not have put my
nose to I took quick note of men at a table
were in
good business-casual the one proffering a buff-
and-orange literary magazine or annual
report and intimating how whatever he had read
in whichever had
absolutely electrified
him
I imagined who already knew that the good life
and none other brought on good writing that men and women
of good taste had money that poetry like a coat of
arms did not come cheap but I had not needed to do the
lesson again
I had known the hotel in its fleabag
heyday
my dad when around had use to room there
I knew
that Juan Ramón had been right and not Rainer Maria

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