He was in a hotel in Baltimore

    in a suburb near Johns Hopkins. He would

    give a talk there， and they would pay him for it.

    It was night， and he was alone； sirens were racing

    up and down the streets. The room was very large.

    Most of what he had wished as a boy was to write poems，

    to have some power with the word， to be paid

    for talking. Don't smile， please. He wanted

    to be put in a beautiful room like this.

    Bonnie would pick him up in an hour. He saw

    out the picture window a few men in trenchcoats

    walking toward the parking lot， and beyond that

    headlights and taillights on a freeway a mile

    or so away. He'd been reading Carver's last book

    of poems， reading "Gravy" and the other valedictories.

    He remembered Carver a few years before his death，

    kidding about his prosperity， kneeling before his Mercedes

    and waving a fistful of dollars， because he was so amazed，

    he supposed， to have them， that good man， whose last poems，

    written in the knowledge of imminent death， said

    love the world， don't grieve overmuch， listen to people.

    The beautiful room was a good place to read； he'd finished

    the book （for the second time） at the pine desk， where

    the indirect white light hurt his eyes. He didn't think

    he'd ever be as famous as Carver， but who could tell？

    He was sorry the man was dead； there was nothing

    he could do about that， but he was sorry for it.

    He got up to look out the picture window. He could

    see the red spintops of some cops' cars. Other than that

    nothing special： in the entrance courtyard a lone cabbie

    smoked a cigarette； spotlights shone up through the yellow

    foliage of a clump of maples. A few slow crickets.

    He had everything he really wanted， he had learned

    that friends， like love， couldn't save him