Читать книгу The Skin of Meaning - Keith Flynn - Страница 21

I will make my art in the margin, I said,

while everyone scurries to look busy,

hoping to impress the Boss,

whose business is failing,

and now must lay his employees off.

I don’t move a muscle,

hamstrung by commission,

and naturally gifted with gab.

I’m used to leaving a big impression

and saying little, my position

secure, having outlasted my peers

who swam back to the university

to spawn their books, whose years

are filled with glib rejoinders

to colleagues about tenure and

pension plans, summers at Yaddo

and Vermont, the right density of manure

for their organic gardens. Fearless,

I will build a church of good-byes,

poems that work their retail magic

even on holidays, that wink when

they should wallow, and kneel for no man.