There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. - Red Smith
Grief inexpressible was in
The strings' untiring twang and chatter.
Fresh oysters, waiting on a platter,
Smelled pungently of salt and brine.
He said: "I am your friend." And as
He said it, touched my sleeve. How chary
Of warmth those fingers were, how very
Far was their touch from a caress.
So cats and birds are petted, eyed
So is a circus rider slender.
A smile, one gay and almost tender,
Beneath his sandy lashes hid.
Behind the screen of smoke, a burst
Of music came. The fiddles shivered:
Bless God and thank him for this tryst,
Your very first with your beloved.