in despair—about my writing—
why couldn’t I ever get a lucky break?—
like when Sherwood Anderson told
Hemingway—to go to Paris—and wrote
a letter for him to Gertrude Stein—or
when Jim Harrison met Denise Levertov
at a party—and she said—send me 
some of your poetry—voilà his first
published book—believe me—I
could go on—and on—I’ve read
all the biographies of famous writers—
each had a lucky break—or two—
or more—but me?—what about
me, goddammit!—then I looked at
the calendar—above my desk—
Vincent gazed back at me—severely—
but not without—compassion