Verbs! Nouns! Metaphors!
My name is Michael Cantor and I come
to poetry too late in life to bring
you unaffected verse – I bear the sum
of years in suits and neckties. Dreams that sing
of balance sheets and factories, and much less,
crowd every line – old broken Yiddish curses,
half-told stories, memories that mess
and turn around my words in visa verses.
My brain retains with crisp and seamless care
ten recipes for boneless leg of lamb;
a fourth round draft choice jostles Baudelaire;
all cram and jam to form an anagram
of names, dates, faces, places; here you’ll find
the rants and ransom of a twisted mind.
To be accompanied by a photograph of the author posed in front of an acre of bookcases, draped in tweed, and staring pensively into the middle distance.
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