Finally, his desk was clear, if he didn't count that folder of poems he was uneasy just to look at. He put the folder in a drawer, out of sight. That was a good place for it, it was safe there and he'd know just where to go to lay his ands on it when he felt like it. Tomorrow! He'd done everything he could do today. There were still those few calls he'd have to make, and he forgot who was supposed to call him, and there were a few notes he was required to send due to a few of the calls, but he had it made now, didn't he? He was out of the woods. He could call today a day. He'd done what he had to do. What his duty told him he should do. He'd fulfilled his sense of obligation and hadn't disappointed anybody.
...... Nothing else needs to be said, really. What can be said for a man who chooses to blab on the phone all day, or else write stupid letters while he lets his poems go unattended and uncared for, abandoned - or worse, unattempted. This man doesn't deserve poems and they shouldn't be given to him in any form. His poems, should he ever produce any more, ought to be eaten by mice.
- Raymond Carver, One More, from A New Path to the Waterfall (1989)
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