Michael
My gift to you.
Janet
Aged Whine
His name is Michael Cantor and he comes
to poetry too late in life to bang
out unaffected rhyme – he bears the sum
of years in suits and neckties, dreams that sang
of balance sheets and factories - and much less
crowds every line – old Yiddish curses,
half-remembered stories, thoughts that mess
and twist his lines to visa verses.
His mind retains with seamless care
ten recipes for boneless leg of lamb;
a fourth round draft choice jostles Baudelaire,
all cram together in an anagram
of names, dates, faces, places; poems abound
in all the corners of his mental Lost and Found
[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited March 29, 2004).]
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