The history professor’s voice circled
at a free evening lecture off Benevolent.
Two hours later he finished rummaging
for meaning, lifted his empty hands:
“How can anyone pursue a wohd
that literally means luck or fohtune?”
Later, on Hope Street, a grizzled gnome
followed me: “This here notebook holds
fahhunerdunthirdyone of the bes’ goddamn
poems in the whole goddamn world.”
He chuckled, held his script like a shield.
“And I wrote ’em all.” He rattled some coins
in a rusted Chock Full O’Nuts can.
“Which one do ya wanner heah first?”