Friday, November 28, 2008
The murder of the imagination was seen as great progress. “Now,” they said, “if we could just do something about these children — you know, nip it in the bud.” But then, before anything was decided, the bud grew, and it opened, and its cloud-sized petals nearly smothered them all. It was a symphony, out on the town. “We’ve failed somehow.” And there was laughter from one mountaintop to another, and the rattling of tin cans tied to the bumper of an old Cadillac — not another wedding! The driver had plans of his own. “Call me on Tuesday.” Tuesday arrived: a card shoved under the door. “The baby’s eating something he shouldn’t.” An éclair? A worm? “No, far worse. Sorry, sir. We’ll pay for your leg.” The imagination: ah! — what a curse.
“Foiled Again” added to Poems, Slightly Used.
In the Forum: The Muffin Affair.