What makes?

This is hard to explain, I mean who the man was Anyhow, it was in a large structure and he sat in A chair in uniform, red coat and all, his job was To examine the hand-stamp of those who left the Structure and returned, there was a lamp you put Your hand under and the stamp appeared (god that Was work) anyhow, as I put my hand under the lamp The man asked, "listen, what's your name?" "Hank," I answered "listen, Hank," he asked, "what makes a man a Writer?" "well," I said, "it's simple, it's either you Get it down on paper or you jump off a Bridge Writers are desperate people and when they stop Being desperate they stop being Writers." "are you desperate?" "I don't know..." I walked on through and as I took the escalator up I saw him sitting there, probably thinking that it was possibly Bullshit, he had wanted me to suggest some special School, some special way, like some way to get out Of that red coat, it was not an enlightening job Like designing a bridge or batting cleanup for the Dodgers but He wasn't desperate enough, the desperate don't ask They do And at the top of the escalator I pushed through the Glass doors and as I did, I thought, son of a bitch I should have asked him his name, and then I felt Bad for him and for myself but a few minutes later I had forgotten all about him And the other way around And he watched more hand-stamps under the lamp And I watched the toteboard and the horses and The desperate people Desperate in all the wrong Ways, in- Deed