I left my Thomas Pynchon in the rain.
It's swollen now to proportions
even Mr. P could not have envisaged.
And new characters have emerged,
a one-armed pitcher, a man whose
heart is literally on his sleeve,
a python with a paintbox.
I look at the new Pynchon with a
reverence I normally reserve for
those TV shows depicting the
afterlife. I settle into my settee now
and the children lift the Pynchon for
me. Their little arms shake like shadows
holding it up. Their expressions,
so rapt, so severe, say, Daddy
loves his fiction, he loves his fiction.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.