My friend Marc Desmond spent his days editing for a law media conglomerate and his evenings writing and reading poetry for homeless girls he met on the street. He copyrighted each poem in the name of the girl for whom he wrote it. In the dead of winter 2001, he had a heart attack and died in the Strand Bookstore. I read a poem at a tribute to Marc that he wrote for a homeless girl named Dawn, his last written work. I was paid fifty dollars for that reading, so I went out on the streets looking for Dawn. When I found her and told her, she didn’t cry. But she took the money.
Just added to The List and the Story: My Aughts