In the great snowfall before the bomb
colored yule tree lights
windows， the only glow for contemplation
along this road
I worked the print shop
right down among em
the folk from whom all poetry flows
and dreadfully much else.
I was Blondie
I carried my bundles of hog feeder price lists
down by Larry the Lug，
I'd never get anywhere
because I'd never had suction，
pull， you know， favor， drag，
well-oiled protection.
I heard their rehashed radio barbs-
more barbarous among hirelings
as higher-ups grow more corrupt.
But what vitality！ The women hold jobs-
clean house， cook， raise children， bowl
and go to church.
What would they say if they knew
I sit for two months on six lines
of poetry？