Howard Firkin
… so somewhere in the world it’s half past twelve,
a number almost nothing rhymes with—good
work there—so surely both of us (read: you) could
find it in your protocol to shelve
(phew!) those flint-hearted plans of yours to work
and call me, think of me, and write a line
to make my head spin, words that make my skin
react as if to breath, to sunlight, pin,
some quiet words that put the shhhh in shine,
that change the irk of work, that let me shirk.
Okay, I’m feeling silly. Like a kid.
I wouldn’t let another see this. This
is yours, the silliness, the light—you did
this to me. Thanks. My line to you this: x
a number almost nothing rhymes with—good
work there—so surely both of us (read: you) could
find it in your protocol to shelve
(phew!) those flint-hearted plans of yours to work
and call me, think of me, and write a line
to make my head spin, words that make my skin
react as if to breath, to sunlight, pin,
some quiet words that put the shhhh in shine,
that change the irk of work, that let me shirk.
Okay, I’m feeling silly. Like a kid.
I wouldn’t let another see this. This
is yours, the silliness, the light—you did
this to me. Thanks. My line to you this: x
