What was it that Brother Adam wrote me last week ?
That there are no certainties in life. That we change
hourly or even from one minute to the next， our entire
cycle of being altered， our whole selves shaken with the
violence of change
Ah， but Brother Adam has never actually laid eyes on
me. And could never guess at the single certainty which
swamps my life and which can be summed up in the
simplest of phrases: I will never be brave. Never. I don t
know what it was--something in my childhood proba-
bly-but I was robbed of my courage.
Even dealing with the post-adolescent teller in my
branch bank is too much for me some days. She punches
in my credits， my tiny salary from the Journal， the
monthly child support money (I receive no alimony)， and
the occasional small， minuscule really， cheque from
some magazine or other which has agreed to publish one
of my poems.
And the debits. I see her faint frown; a hundred and
fifty for rent. Perhaps she thinks that s too much for a
woman in my circumstances. So do I， but I do have a
child and can t， for his sake， live in a slum. Though the
street is beginning to look like one. Almost every house
on the block is subdivided now， cut up into two or three
apartments; sometimes even a half-finished basement
room with plywood walls and a concrete floor rented out
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