And fucking clean." He turned and walked into my living room; I heard him changing the channels on my tv, and then the sound of a can cracking open. ..."BATH!!" he shouted abruptly.I flinched. My feet turned me and took me up the stairs, where in a daze I ran a bath and stripped my clothes off and lowered myself into the warm water. With no plan in mind, hoping maybe to play for time, I soaped, shaved, soaped again. I heard the crack of his second can of beer opening. I soaped vigorously, my. True, I wasn’t with the Kerouacs or Cassidys, riding and driving in cross country orgies of food, booze, a few women (very few women), Buddhism and poetry, no I was too much in the midst of my disillusionment with Rod McKuen to know about beat poetry. I stood in line that October, not knowing that just a year later, the woman I waited to see would take her blanket into her car and go to sleep forever while still parked in her garage. I only knew it was Anne, Anne Sexton, and though I didn’t. More

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