Posterity

Jake Balokowsky, my biographer, / Has this page microfilmed. Sitting inside / His air-conditioned cell at Kennedy / In jeans and sneakers, he’s no call to hide / Some slight impatience with his destiny: / ‘I’m stuck with this old fart at least a year; // I wanted to teach school in Tel Aviv, / But Myra’s folks’ — he makes the money sign — / ‘Insisted I got tenure. When there’s kids —’ / He shrugs. ‘It’s stinking dead, the research line; / Just let me put this bastard on the skids, / I’ll get a couple of semesters leave // To work on Protest Theater.’ They both rise, / Make for the Coke dispenser. ‘What’s he like? / Christ, I just told you. Oh, you know the thing, / That crummy textbook stuff from Freshman Psych, / Not out of kicks or something happening — / One of those old-type natural fouled-up guys.’