Collected Poems of John Holmes
Holmes, John A., Jr.
He counts time, time, but time counts against him.
It is his habit of puttying up his clumsy errors
That brings ruin on all of us. No he-witch,
I have rhyme, I have a certain power to lay a curse.
O'Rahilly did it, you withered, and all who knew you.
Some way of making your name ridiculous, or worse,
Till you would wish never to hear of yourself again.
I had the enemy in my house, the clattering workman,
Only yesterday, the master of words and nails.
I thought of Leonard, I remembered Wren, and Wright,
Reached at Gutenberg's wooden letters, Rodin's wooden
Mallet, I dreamed Jefferson's years making Monticello.
And laid a curse on the man who re-hung my door crooked.