Record Wallah

Since he seems to consider his entire lifetime a season
Fierce enough to best hole up in a poet's cranny
--What has this soldier to report back to us?

These whirlwinds in teacups
These misdialed calls: Are they of
Any interest to a world in actual turmoil?

If there is always some twister churning outside
We surely do expect him to report
About its eye.

And there he is, that nestled bastard
Exactly where he ought to be, laid-back
While observing a model tempest in a pot.

Once funneled into a poet's cranny
No squall ever managed to blur
The eye of a record wallah.

He would coax us afield
Into heeding his aftcast whereas
Inenarrable weather fronts toss us about.

February 27, 2008