This is hard to explain, I mean who the man was
Anyhow, it was in a large structure and he sat in
A chair in uniform, red coat and all, his job was
To examine the hand-stamp of those who left the
Structure and returned, there was a lamp you put
Your hand under and the stamp appeared (god that
Was work) anyhow, as I put my hand under the lamp
The man asked, "listen, what's your name?"
"Hank," I answered
"listen, Hank," he asked, "what makes a man a
Writer?"
"well," I said, "it's simple, it's either you
Get it down on paper or you jump off a
Bridge
Writers are desperate people and when they stop
Being desperate they stop being
Writers."
"are you desperate?"
"I don't know..."
I walked on through and as I took the escalator up
I saw him sitting there, probably thinking that it was possibly
Bullsh**, he had wanted me to suggest some special
School, some special way, like some way to get out
Of that red coat, it was not an enlightening job
Like designing a bridge or batting cleanup for the
Dodgers but
He wasn't desperate enough, the desperate don't ask
They do
And at the top of the escalator I pushed through the
Gla** doors and as I did, I thought, son of a b**h
I should have asked him his name, and then I felt
Bad for him and for myself but a few minutes later
I had forgotten all about him
And the other way around
And he watched more hand-stamps under the lamp
And I watched the toteboard and the horses and
The desperate people
Desperate in all the wrong
Ways, in-
Deed