IT'S ALL A BUNDLE
Sky-track and high on high. This life
leaves nothing to chance : sit here, read
the paper, the way they used to do it in
the old days. The ink from The New York
Times used to darken my hands, turning
my finger-tips black. Musty with ink.
The typecast lines used to be Linotype.
A metal slug, a line each time, 10 words
here, 10 words there. You'd see the mistakes
right in the copy. Not now, no more, and
they really want you to read on-line.
I stand in line, but I never read on-line.
My old suits are still all tweed. It's
a bundle of bushels, each filled