Into the Mouth of the Newspaper Man
With a Voice as Clear as a Child's.

Lots of O's as though croonings through A megaphone come from the Corner as Old Bo howls out The headlines, sine-wave pure The last partials of a field-bell Glowing gently over a hill Please please swallow some bland pill To unhinge your soft jowls And let me sit In your humid innocence, blithely Supping on the palatable Palpable notesaway & serene, A gray panache of smoke Rising into a pure sky At the horizon