for Ted Parkhurst
Throughout each day, Max Perkins would edit
every phrase with no discretion. He’d
even flip words when tired. To his credit,
he remained faithful, sharing his small seed
with only one woman, and his slight swing
where they’d idle side by side, like bookends
awaiting hardbounds never arriving.
Did he label the publisher a friend?
Did his spirit rise high enough to love?
Bird watchers might know. And we can pretend
his preening proved a sign. He liked above
more than below, at least until the end,
when his floor circling announced the sad stroke,
and he fell silent, wrapped in pastel cloak.
Roger Armbrust
October 25, 2006
