II Like John Lennon lying on the floor, a woman, say sleeping in the crotch of her arm, everyone else mostly women, apathetic, supposedly gay, disposed the same, benign, behind her all the way, a man, asleep on a pile of pillows, and two more, arm in arm against the heater, dreaming, and passing the cake, she licks her fingers, her children sleeping in the other room, come in, begging for a piece. I What, grinning, is this new place, I, faced with its accidental nature, accept the car in the ditch and try to reassure her who put it there, lend my ear so to speak, to the bitch who fucked up and gave up but caught me, walking alone in the dark, instead invited me in, for coffee and, by chance, for cake: someone to talk to waiting for the triple A.
16 October 1974