I felt my friend was damning himself irrevocably, sinning against the Holy Ghost. I had to get away from those sulphur fumes, so I went back to poetry.
“Howja know you can write poetry to make your livin’ at it? Have you tried?”
“Yeah! Lots of times. It’s a cinch!”
“You mean you’ve got some poems writ already?”
“Sure, slathers of ’em.”
“Where are they?”
“Home—locked up so Pa won’t get ’em—along with Bernie’s letters.”
“What’s your Ma think about you bein’ a poet?”
“Oh, she don’t think nothin’, only what a hard time she has with Pa and that Edith will marry money.”
“Ain’t you ever talked with her about it?”