![]() In the poetry section, I picked up an anthology edited by Robert Bly-he couldn’t have been more disdainful of the kind of work I had loved I’d always returned the favor. I was in the poorhouse of want and shame, which dogs often call home. I was in that not-smoking-not-drinking-resume-going-to-Mass place, maybe learn-a-foreign-language-and-spend-a-decade-reading-Dickens place. I considered changing everything about the way I lived, loved, breathed, and ate as well. I considered changing everything about the way I read, but my remorse ran deeper. To mark my sincerity, I suggested we all go to a bookstore-wife, son, me. I promised said wife I would get some help. ![]() It was a terrible Saturday, the kind of Saturday you have after a Friday night spent explaining to your third wife why you had a hooker in your house and how the condom wrapper she spotted under the couch was not, after all, necessary.
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