Canto XXVI

The engineer writes haiku on his phone
as machines chug and whirr into lunch break.
This is the greatest peace of mind he’s known.

He thinks of Frank O’Hara, rushing back
to bash the keys while munching ham on rye,
to finish just before the hour hand’s tick

so that the New York poet can sent his lines
to Ferlinghetti’s gaff on the East Coast.
But when the engineer’s haiku is done

he hits publish and then the poem is lost
among its kin that swarm the internet.
He stops for lunch and nods to Li Po’s ghost—

the many works he penned which he then set
on fire before he cast them down the river,
sent back to where they came from, made complete,

to places where they’ll stay in print forever.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Niall O'Sullivan
    Sep 26, 2011 @ 19:26:23

    The sweet irony is that I accidentally deleted this poem and wrote it again from memory. Oh yes, I am a big fat stinky hypocrite.


  2. peter litton
    Aug 10, 2012 @ 23:57:12

    Frank O’hara, now there’s a name to bring back memories. I read his poetry one rainy afternoon in New York.


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