It happened sometime between his return from Costa Rica
		and the beginning of his last year, about the time
		his marriage flew to California and fell apart,
		while he was working for that minimum wage.
		His life grown slack, all art looked slack,
		from Bill T. Jones to Robert Bly,
		and he couldn't quite say why,
		but he was spooked by "I" and wouldn't write it.
		When he turned that corner, the street looked much the same
		though he didn't admit that to himself at first.
		He called himself a student and studied the art
		and paid attention to a woman who called him a boy.
		But eventually, he put on his humble hat,
		got the magazine's address, and submitted.