The World At Your Finger Tips she promised,
a pretty young girl
in red, cooing something about Gs and
4s or was it 5s
in big blazing font in the Sunday Times.
A right fielder by
inclination, the world, I complained, that
wobbling, spinning sphere,
was more than I could handle, man my age.
Fearful of bobbling
earth, old girl gasping her ragged last breath,
I pled my case for
the pebbled skin of oranges, the bark of
old growth white pine trees,
Rings of Saturn grooves round a Band LP,
wrapped bike handlebars,
the cool, smooth shell of hand blown glass holding
a sharp Dixon Ticonderoga on
fine, white sketching bond,
the still smooth hands of the woman I love,
my finger tips pledged
to touch lesser worlds I'll remember with
my ragged last breath.
December 6, 2011