Thursday, August 29, 2013


In urgent dress, the young clerk 
holds a reddish 
     rag up to his nose and 
seated and intense-
ly through collected 
     poems of So-And-So—

while outside tawny 
throngs of finches 
up splayed branches of 
an old resplendent 
green that's framed in by 
his window, 

Say son, why're you 
being such 
a sissy this morning—nursing a bloody 
     nose there, popping
pimples in your office 
chair?  What's wrong—You scared?

to death of a little 
simple height?  Or is it maybe 
     more like
afraid to lose a little depth!