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Poem	(For S. A.)TO write one book in five years or five books in one year, to be the painter and the thing painted, … where are we, bo? Wait—get his number. The barber shop handling is here and the tweeds, the cheviot, the Scotch Mist, and the flame orange scarf. Yet there is more—he sleeps under bridges with lonely crazy men; he sits in country jails with bootleggers; he adopts the children of broken-down burlesque actresses; he has cried a heart of tears for Windy MacPherson’s father; he pencils wrists of lonely women. Can a man sit at a desk in a skyscraper in Chicago and be a harnessmaker in a corn town in Iowa and feel the tall grass coming up in June and the ache of the cottonwood trees singing with the prairie wind?
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