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 hog¹ feeder price lists

    down by Larry the Lug²，

    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 corrupt³.

    But what vitality⁴！ 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？