I should not have brought Ginsberg
to the hospital with me;
shouldn't have sat with him
outside the coffee shop, waiting.
It was all I could do
to keep from screaming
"Shut the fuck up!"
as he prattled on
about drugs and money,
the greedy doctors
and all the bloody floors.
I should have brought Brautigan,
maybe, or Patchen; anyone but
Allen; anyone who'd spend the day
watching and waiting and writing:
Kerouac, maybe; or Corso; anyone.
But not Mr. G; no.
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