No one, except another poet could keep on knocking, soliciting you with verse Ringing at odd hours and asking, “If possible, fix me a sandwich…” Gobbling up intimate moments forming characters rumbling out their minds Wanting to be pulled into the raw hit of heart demands Going on, going back Never intent on selling or completed ‘cyclopedics. Searching for needed additional lines… We are lonely restless carpetbaggers, with gaunt eyes hard hands, clutching yellow pages