FIRE AT J.D. SALINGER'S HOUSE!

He came flying out of his house,
even though he’s so old.
He had his hands to his head like Guernica,
splayed over his ears in the
International Sign of Despair,
then the clouds parted and Shakespeare
rained gushes and gushes upon him wet.

His neighbors called him Jerry, patted
his back softly as he leaned on the
satellite dish and cried, just now learning what it was like
to have the national mood seep into the ground next to
his house, burning paper and ink like nothing.


© 1992 Daniel X. O'Neil

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