Lined up behind the space bartender
is the meaning of it all, the vessels
marked with letters, numbers,
signs. Beyond the flats
the monitor looms, for all the world
like the world. Images and
motions, weeping women,
men in hats. I have killed
many happy hours here,
with my bare hands,
where TV passes for IV, among
the space cadets and dingbats.
2007: Ask Me by William Stafford
1 comment:
from Poetry (March 2008)
cited here (poetryfoundation.org)
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