About his in her style
By
Lynn M. Skapyak
He is a myth regenerating.
Who does he think, he is?
Does he even think, for
a moment, he's a genius?
He is pecking at the Royal
recording all the snatches
sifted through the beer
muddled haze. The words
blur even under new ribbons.
He doesn't need to see one
letter joining another "better
to hear you," he chuckles,
wolf grin toothless leer.
He'll remember this patter.
They come, he thinks,
sometimes words careen
other words drip allegro.
Growing impatient he drinks
he sinks into sound patterns
snippets echo.
He can't keep up with their pace
his fingers slow in this race.
Conversations stick to him, velcro
retaining all the words hurled at him,
around him. Trying to ground him
into the sameness he'll never
be into. He is a constant,
a word grinding machine.
One or two phrases, brilliant
surrounded by whiteness
and smudged type, one letter
pressed at a time. "Does any-
one have a dime," he blinks,
"or a beer?" he thinks.
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