Issue 155, Summer 2000
While Frenchmen kissed, I gave man wings.
Reportedly I dreamed of birds. The hills along the post road
once lined the floor of a vast inland sea; behind the foundry,
where Zachary and I beat the Jewish boys from school,
we found stone husks of waterskimmers, coiled granite eels,
horned and hairy fish that swam above our chimney.
Please learn from me: There's always room for progress,
or, There's nothing a man can't do if he washes his hands
instead of paying attention. With his cat, Mittens.
Shaking hands with Presidents Taft through Truman.
The inventor's son, today President of the Company,
in front of the rebuilt bicycle shop, smiling with a scale model
of his father's nightmare, the terrible whirling, the cog.