Finding Work
In the dream, it was almost
too late. I wondered why
I’d never made a career
making crosswords. Not
the kind everyone
knows, but the kind
no one’s made
yet. I’m good with grids,
I’m terrible with puns.
I like word acts, speech acts.
I hate impenetrable
puzzles sometimes found
in the Times, their smug quips
and privileged clues, caveats
and rare expressions
used in shelved translations
and cryptic best sellers, obscure
ideas meant to make everyone
curious or angry. Both.
Is this how some poetry
works? where
you’ll need to know
the first letter of the middle name
of a disgraced prince,
what makes the grass
in the fairy tale glisten?
or the author [trick
question] who drew
that moat, in which part
of the world? What’s
another word for tower,
another word for chill,
the complexion of stone
the color of … No – wait –
these are clues I might need
to secure a job.
Finally –– the bolting
and unbolting, where image
meets text, the wall,
of course, navigable
after all. All things are possible
in my puzzles. I was out of work
in the dream, and really did
need to work, so drawing
from life
was essential. In life I deeply
regret time wasted on subjects
I cared little about. The day jobs,
the lost years. Time.
Eventually ––
I found chemistry, work
where the goal
is to make everything
majestic. Every night
I paint squares on a page
before going to sleep,
a letter becomes
a stain. And still
I keep stroking the page,
and still I keep
leaving things out.
* * * * *
The Setup
He ate like someone crumpling a piece of paper. I wish
I’d written that line. I closed the book and
tasted that which can’t
be recovered from. This quelling took me
to my former office and that of an ex-
boss, the old racist, caught and
sued. His bigotry costs him millions
in sensitivity training for all of us, back in the days
when that was punishment, teaching old-
dogs not to get caught.