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Poem	Taut, thick fingers punch the teeth of my typewriter. Three words are down on paper in capitals: SPRING SPRING SPRING... And me -- poet, proofreader, the man who's forced to read two thousand bad lines every day for two liras-- why, since spring has come, am I still sitting here like a ragged black chair? My head puts on its cap by itself, I fly out of the printer's, I'm on the street. The lead dirt of the composing room on my face, seventy-five cents in my pocket. SPRING IN THE AIR... In the barbershops they're powdering the sallow cheeks of the pariah of Publishers Row. And in the store windows three-color bookcovers flash like sunstruck mirrors. But me, I don't have even a book of ABC's that lives on this street and carries my name on its door! But what the hell... I don't look back, the lead dirt of the composing room on my face, seventy-five cents in my pocket, SPRING IN THE AIR... * The piece got left in the middle. It rained and swamped the lines. But oh! what I would have written... The starving writer sitting on his three-thousand-page three-volume manuscript wouldn't stare at the window of the kebab joint but with his shining eyes would take the Armenian bookseller's dark plump daughter by storm... The sea would start smelling sweet. Spring would rear up like a sweating red mare and, leaping onto its bare back, I'd ride it into the water. Then my typewriter would follow me every step of the way. I'd say: "Oh, don't do it! Leave me alone for an hour..." then my head-my hair failing out-- would shout into the distance: "I AM IN LOVE..." * I'm twenty-seven, she's seventeen. "Blind Cupid, lame Cupid, both blind and lame Cupid said, Love this girl," I was going to write; I couldn't say it but still can! But if it rained, if the lines I wrote got swamped, if I have twenty-five cents left in my pocket, what the hell... Hey, spring is here spring is here spring spring is here! My blood is budding inside me! 20 and 21 April 1929
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