If You Believe You're A Poet, Then

My Father Went Into The Armed Service And I Never Saw My Mother - I Don't Know What Happened To Her.

I Remember The People I Knew In Prison; I Was Very Fortunate To Know Them - They Came From 1910, 1920, 1930.

I Feel I Want To Be Wise With White Hair In A Tall Library In A Deep Chair By A Fireplace.

Ah, If I Were Dictator I'd Have Poets Throwing Bombs!

O How Terrible It Must Be For A Young Man-- Seated Before A Family And The Family Thinking We Never Saw Him Before! He Wants Our Mary Lou! After Tea And Homemade Cookies They Ask What Do You Do For A Living