“I want to get away somewhere and re-read Proust,” <br />Said an editor of Fortune to a man on Time. <br />But the fire roared and died, the phoenix quacked like a goose, <br />And all roads to the country fray like shawls <br />Outside the dusk of suburbs. Pacing the halls <br />Where mile-high windows frame a dream with witnesses, <br />You taste, fantast and epicure, the names of towns along the coast, <br />Black roadsters throbbing on the highways blue with rain <br />Toward one lamp, burning on those sentences. <br /> <br /> <br />“I want to get away somewhere and re-read Proust,” <br />Said an editor of Newsweek to a man on Look. <br />Dachaus with telephones, Siberias with bonuses. <br />One reads, as winter settles on the town, <br />The evening paper, in an Irving Place café.<br /><br />Weldon Kees<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/problems-of-a-journalist/
