Random House

by Yaacov Dovid Shulman

I was arranging my words
So that I could send them to Random House.
What a mistake!
There secretaries were flying out of the walls,
Abandoned IBM Selectric typewriters occasionally belched up
From the industrial carpet on the floor,
Colored salmon, charcoal gray, chartreuse,
The view outside the window shook, took off its clothes,
Put on some hard-edged skyscrapers, wiggled its sun,
Threw up a screen of clouds, of confused flamingos,
Of executives with hard-pack Pall Malls in their breast pockets.
It was all pell mell,
It was all going to hell,
Downstairs a bell cracked,
Freedom spilled out like shiny foil wrapped candies,
The hard kind with the soft taffy at the center.
My manila envelope spilled open, my words snaked across the corridor,
Past the water cooler,
Where a rhinoceros stood, shaking his heavy jaw.
I walked into the boardroom,
Where cab drivers, housewives, fast food deliverers, architectural students
And a variety of idealists
Were gazing into crooked mirrors, baring their teeth at each other.
Words were ejaculated, and small, misshapen moles scurried across the offices,
Blindly seeking the elevators, where they might descend to the basement
And find the cool tranquility of darkness.
Everyone was there in Random House,
And so I pressed into a crowded, noisy room
And held my manila envelope close to my breast
And watched the small black letters clamber out
And hurry to the morris dance.