Friday, April 25, 2014

not my type


The type is an excellent example of the influential and sturdy Dutch types that prevailed in England up to the time William Caslon (1692-1766) developed his own incomparable designs from them. 

Four square wing chair, forbearing lamp
hovering a little behind and just above,
pouring endless rounds of burnished light,

raveled sweater scabbed with elbow patches
not to mention the roomy eluvial pants
that cascade heaved and rumpled into my lap,

a captains stripes of reading glasses
manning the bridge of my nose convey a
sonorous sense of timelessness shading to  

somnolence broken suddenly by the sound
of shattering glass jolting me awake, a baseball
among glittering shards at my slippered feet.

“Goddamn kids, I’m keeping your ball!” shaking
my fist as they scatter, not a Garamond
or New Times Roman among them.

The neighborhood’s changed, all these
Hiskyflipper’s and Scranton Fancy’s,
Scrappy La Doots and Scars Before Christmas

running wild, wreaking havoc, showing absolutely
no respect.  You bet I’ll be having a word or two
with the parents of Bad Mother Fucka. 

No comments:

Post a Comment