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There
was
a
knock
on
the
door
.
Two
people
had
slipped
through
,
a
poet
and
his
woman
.
The
poet
was
Morse
Jenkins
from
Vermont
.
His
woman
was
Sadie
Everet
.
He
had
four
bottles
of
beer
.
He
wore
sandals
and
old
torn
bluejeans
;
turquoise
bracelets
;
a
chain
around
his
throat
;
he
had
a
beard
,
long
hair
;
orange
blouse
.
He
talked
,
and
he
talked
.
And
walked
around
the
room
.
There
is
a
problem
with
writers
.
If
what
a
writer
wrote
was
published
and
sold
many
,
many
copies
,
the
writer
thought
he
was
great
.
If
what
a
writer
wrote
was
published
and
sold
a
medium
number
of
copies
,
the
writer
thought
he
was
great
.
If
what
a
writer
wrote
was
published
and
sold
very
few
copies
,
the
writer
thought
he
was
great
.
If
what
the
writer
wrote
never
was
published
and
he
didn
’
t
have
the
money
to
publish
it
himself
,
then
he
thought
he
was
truly
great
.
The
truth
,
howevet
,
was
that
there
was
very
little
greatness
.
It
was
almost
nonexistent
,
invisible
.
But
you
could
be
sure
that
the
worst
writers
had
the
most
confidence
,
the
least
self
-
doubt
.
Anyway
,
writers
were
to
be
avoided
,
and
I
tried
to
avoid
them
,
but
it
was
almost
impossible
.
They
hoped
for
some
sort
of
brotherhood
,
some
kind
of
togetherness
.
None
of
it
had
anything
to
do
with
writing
,
none
of
it
helped
at
the
typewriter
.
"
I
sparred
with
Clay
before
he
became
Ali
,
"
said
Morse
.
Morse
jabbed
and
shuffled
,
danced
.
"
He
was
pretty
good
,
but
I
gave
him
a
workout
.
"
Morse
shadow
-
boxed
about
the
room
.
"
Look
at
my
legs
!
"
he
said
.
"
I
’
ve
got
great
legs
!
"
"
Hank
’
s
got
better
legs
than
you
have
,
"
said
Tammie
.
Being
a
leg
-
man
,
I
nodded
.
Morse
sat
down
.
He
pointed
a
beer
bottle
at
Sadie
.
"
She
works
as
a
nurse
.
She
supports
me
.
But
I
’
m
going
to
make
it
someday
.
They
’
ll
hear
from
me
!
"
