I like how New Yorker poems look on the page
their crisp lines well-margined and dense-furnished,
with words that reside only in dictionaries
but could double as wall-hangings for the sage.
They talk of serious things like death and taxes
but mostly I like the broken-up text,
with abrupt - and surprising! - indentations,
and with the gib-cut of words like "remex".
Sometimes we see poetry as the antidote
to the snakebite of a surfeit of journalism,
while other times we like the idea of it
more than the fact of its actualism*.
So let the New Yorker poems wash o'er you,
like mood music on a a Sunday afternoon,
Study them like the Times daily crossword,
or gaze at them like books on the moon!
* - As if they were refuge areas in far-flung places where no one ever goes except the caribou.
Tale of Two Cats
Two little fur’d denizens of the house,
lay next to each other and grouse,
Irritated by proximities only one chose
They'll sleep the sleep of family foes.
I wait and watch for tonight’s big fight,
since Sam’s tail is too close to the other’s nose tonight,
But time heals all wounds or at the very least
induces sleep in these feline beasts.