I spent my twenties writing stories, trying

to wait tables. I waited tables like

Rabelais and Orwell wrote of shagging—

unconvincingly. I’d not aspired
to waiting tables. I waited tables like

Pollock juggling scotch bottle and dentist drill—

catastrophically. I’d not aspired

to moussing innocent bystanders: they watched
Pollock juggling scotch bottle and dentist drill

transfixed, as if he were intending

to mousse innocent bystanders: they dodged

lap-slop horrors that defied dry-cleaning
transfixed, as if I was intending

(as Rabelais and Orwell wrote of shagging)

to let slip horrors that defied dry-cleaning:

I spent my twenties writing stories, trying.