What if you devoted all your time to poetry? Chewstroke asked, and I had to choke back a sob at the thought of it: to just write poetry and back away from politics, for my health, for my sanity—back away from the unfolding economic collapse that keeps us perpetually behind on the rent, the gas, the electric, and the car payment that must be paid or the whole commuting engine of her employment stops. No more income. No unemployment insurance for a temp position. And what if the car dies? 141,000 miles plus. What then, Professor? Don’t think such thoughts. Don’t worry, the family says, and palms us a little money—just between us. We are grateful and we are humiliated. But don’t worry, they say, and invite us to their catered parties. Everyone smile. Cheese. Take home some leftover food for the week. And don’t worry. Grandma came to me in a dream. She wanted me to tell you to stop crying, Charlie. She said: “Tell him not to worry so much. Things will get better.”

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