Writer at Work
I went by Kerouac’s house. The one he died in.
I had quit IBM and was writing Evil Genius, Open Book,
and Forty. I dressed like a beachcomber. On Sunday I read
the
the
the
because I made their columnists, Steve Mitchell
and Ron Wiggins, look bad. I wore a Timex
camper watch with a blaze orange watchband.
I wore white cotton painter pants with a hammer loop
and a slash pocket for a cell phone. Are you a painter,
no, I’m a writer. I meant a housepainter. I meant
a technical writer.