BELLS TOLL A SYMPTOM OF EXPERIENCE
“Of the contents of my well-placed box I speak,”
wrote the runt of the litter in a letter he wrote—
boasting exclusion of everything else.
Smug as a boxer he enters the ring,
he peals off his robe and he hops up-and-down,
only to get his so-to-speak bell rung
by the first fisted punch from an unconfirmed source.
Now one fat lip contends at the soup bowl
no better than two when they’re too smugly pursed.
So they’ll be no first course, or second, of course,
no box lunch today and no tureen tomorrow.
So room service won’t you bring to my room
an ice tam-o-shanter and a snifter of advice
on the virtues of the bob and the hazards
of the weave.
The clandestine bellhop
knows just what I need.
Phil Crafts is a tree-hugging Earth worshipper who believes that all species are equal and envies the ones that can fly. He lives in the village of Leverett in western Massachusetts not far from the banks of the mighty Connecticut River.