Poem: Some enjambment evening  

Too much caffeine, so I’m awake with these

annoying mini-spasms. They’ve no name.

I try to get some sleep; I play a game

reciting poems. And when my feet don’t freeze

my poets lullabye me even if,

like Robinson in “Demos,” he or she

has written as though English might not be

their native tongue. Such pieces are more dif-

ficult to summon up. There’s times I’ve gone

more than an hour, almost until dawn

before the brain gave out and sleep came on.


But poetry of late has not fatigued

my mind sufficiently, I’ve come to find,

since I recite, of course, what I’ve assigned

myself to learn. I’m puzzled, I’m intrigued

far more, indeed I’m fairly hypnotized

when ambushed by a challenge to fill in

a blank, or failing, suffer my chagrin.

It’s Trivial Pursuit, but customized.

Who acted Mama Corleone? She

was black, a singer. She eluded me

night after night and days too, tauntingly.


Sure, you remember Bob and Ray, no doubt,

as I do with the soft New England brogue

one of them had. But wait — who was that rogue

(Three syllables,) the roving racetrack tout?

He’d get them on the telephone and then

he’d want some money wired and when Ray

would turn him down, he’d ask for Bob and say —

when Bob said no — he wanted Ray again.

But what’s the name? Sarcastic’ly I thank

whoever brewed that extra cup I drank.

I chase (three syllables) and draw a blank.


Now my Inquisitor demands I delve

into my recollection on the chance

that I can name the last book of A Dance

to the Music of Time. Yes. Volume Twelve.

Anthony Powell — but he pronounced it “Pole –”

played subtle ironist and he took care

that when he wrote “finis,” that book should bear

the final number that a clock would toll.


Well, I’ll sleep better now, be more at ease

no longer plagued by unsolved mysteries:

(Morgana King, Steve Bosko (yes!) and

Hearing Secret Harmonies.)


So, having tracked these fugitives down, I’m

deserving of some relaxation time.


But no, I lie awake in search of rhyme.