“Poetry doesn’t pay. But I need it. And so do you.”

“How do you make a living if you’re writing a book?” Joshua asked. The boy was getting a bike for Christmas that’s all there was to it.David squirmed in his seat. “It doesn’t pay anything yet.”“So, then what do you do to pay the bills?” Joshua asked. Forget the bike, he was getting a go-cart.”

“I’m a poet. And then I put the poetry in the drama. I put it in short stories, and I put it in the plays. Poetry’s poetry. It doesn’t have to be called a poem, you know.”

“My heart sinks. I guess I should be glad he doesn’t care, but I’m not. He’s supposed to care. Mom cares so much, it’s smothering; but that doesn’t mean he’s allowed to do this, to check out. And suddenly I need him to care. I need him to give me something so I know he’s still here, still Dad.”

“Seek always to do some good, somewhere... Even if it's a little thing, so something for those that need help, something for which you get no pay but the privilege of doing it.”

“I don't need poetry, prema. I just need to get near enough to touch you.”