The title of the poems was The Only Bar in Dixon. We sent it out to The New Yorker on a fluke, and they took them and printed all three in the same issue. ↗
My apartment is the equivalent of one room in my Toronto home. Now I understand why New Yorkers are on the streets at all hours. People don't want to stay inside for fear they'll go crazy. ↗
People say New Yorkers can't get along. Not true. I saw two New Yorkers, complete strangers, sharing a cab. One guy took the tires and the radio; the other guy took the engine. ↗