I sat opposite Christopher Isherwood in the Santa Monica home
where he lived with his artist-friend, Don.
Wondering aloud what good, young writers were coming along,
he mentioned Richard Brautigan.
They died within a couple of years of each other,
when Isherwood was an older writer,
Brautigan a younger writer,
and me just totally unknown.
It's no comfort to know
that in a hundred years
we'll all be equal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem