The Anthology of Words, Words, Words

I have made it half-way through the anthology of

Poetry I have been reading, a lengthy collection of

Verse I bought through Amazon a week or so ago.

I have read all about fallow farm fields and crusty

Old farmers, about grazing heifers and flocking geese,

About the bygone days of the neighborhood hardware

Store with bin after bin of loose nuts and bolts, about

The hassles of coin-op laundromats and love affairs lost,

Rusty old cars rotting away in the graveyards of vacant

Lots, the haves and have-nots, about Kansas dust storms

In the 1930s, and childhood follies, about Los Angeles

And Pershing Square, old black men and jazz, about the

Hissing noises steam engines make and bridal showers,

The wafting perfumed fields of wild flowers. I’ve skipped

Over delirious soliloquies about New York and God’s will,

Have struggled through verse after verse bemoaning sin

And the extolling of mankind virtues. I now know what

The poet felt when first he saw snow, and the love she held

For her dearly departed mother. All those iron-weighted and

Satin-smooth pages I have turned, and that’s not even the

Half of it. If I weren’t so old and short on time, should my

Memory serve me better, had I not been struck with a pro-

found and sudden loss of words after having ingested so

Many, I could certainly go on.

Chris Hanch  6-26-15