A farce, which was this hemophiliac doorbell
stopped in its tracks, that is their blessed glistening
meanness, like tumblers to a toddler
a ritual was something else
nothing, no circumlocution, no zeronones
a one pain above or a waiting design
its a range, it introduced the l to the l
and made its point, systematically
within a chart there is a folder
inside all this and unusual
an echo the ear can't wrap, won't
cling, not unavailable in not selling
not absent and not adorned
the three-legged stool, not unheard
but ill-advised, and often.
For years a secret shame destroyed my peace--
I'd not read Eliot, Auden or MacNiece.
But now I think a thought that brings me hope:
Neither had Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope.
-- Justin Richardson.
This page was last modified on 2011 December 20. "Tender" by John Sullivan is Copyright ©2003 - 2011, and licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.