In the path behind the university, I spoke
to an old friend, no longer the Santa of Invention,
though broad-shouldered. He listened
and said nothing. I explained my shoes
had a synthetic sole, and was lost
explaining synthetic. They were suede
with contrast stitching. I moved
from records to iPods, and was lost
on touch screen. America gave me this Midas
to redeem lightning for data, and I
was failing him. Too much is fixed
in the span between the black pulp
of the inkwell and the pixel. But, he was kind.
My frustration spoke to his hands. I couldn’t
identify the rock he held, but knew the empty
Colt 45 bottle ten paces from where we stood.
Without much of a windup, he shattered it.
Stocky, even after the decaying years,
I saw the athlete and his smile. Baseball: the bat,
the ball, the hitter, the pitcher, three bases and three tries.
Computers cooled in the lab, visible
through the window, but he looked
at the early moon teetering on the pines.
Yes, I said, we were there.
“It was a brilliant age–and Franklin was a little closer to it at first hand than if he had been in Boston or Philadelphia.”
- Carl VanDoren
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