That line of Diane Keaton’s, “A handful of poems, is that all, what a life is worth?” Manhattan?  Wherefore Kenneth? Wherever Frank, Ashbery Park? Had that indeed been the line, verbatim?  Last binding word, worth, my middle name?  What to make of her, my own, birth- date, zero one, zero five …? glare of red lights flashing, blare of sirens wailing, a fire engine, then … Continue reading Manhattan, and elsewhere by Larry Jones