the wall


I know the only way my name'll ever turn up in a New Yorker

is if

I subscribe

and it'll appear there in a little glued-on corner

along with my bar code information

allowing I have only six months remaining

before the flash of last notice reminders

that my sub is soon due to run out

and if I'm not stupid as I've proven to this point

by letting the matter get to the last ditch time when

they need to emphatically tell me

hey you

you blind so and so out in California;

the dark ages,

you of course don't get it

or you won't if you don't quickly mail

or e-mail

your money for $64.75

I then read

Sharon Olds,


who I have met

I've played softball with Sir Galway

he being thirty years older

and I couldn't keep up

didn't catch One of his fast line drives

he sleepy after lunch at a workshop he's I guess gun forced to
       be at

soups at my trial and error balloon

y know, son, do you, have you been taught about the need for

how its role in

he moves toward a treatise on English language usage

and where I'm not in sync with it

pads me on the back and encourages me to stay with it

forgets my name of course fast

moves on to Lynne Hickok