where the writers are Vonnegut, briefly        Kurt Vonnegut
looked old.  He shuffled by my booth at the antiques show, eyes
bleary, a bit of the ancient walrus about him.  A walrus in a
rumpled London Fog, neither stylish nor especially interesting. 
I had only rhinestone jewelry to offer.  Not walrus fodder at
all and he moved on.  It was he, all right.  And he was it.  I
began rereading his works that night.       Vonnegut has now
been dead for two years.  How did I not know this?  Why was I
not summoned?  In my egocentric universe all those I have
revered --- some shyly, some more blatantly ---  maintain
themselves on this planet in their respective roles attendant to
my needs alone  and I am confronted by my own mortality when one
of them is so disloyal as to die.       I wish Vonnegut had
purchased a whimsical rhinestone pin.  I would have given him
such a deal.