The Grizzled New York Times Paws Its New Stomping Grounds, a poem from Marion Dreyfus
The new New York Times glowers on 8th Avenue,
chill end of '07, since they moved last
month from their musky centenarian
digs on dingy W. 43rd, infamous
for streetworn lunch-pails and the deadcold
coffee styros of restive strikers.
Betimes, as you grind uptown nightly,
there it squats, the balky Times upright in its im-
posing blackish-pewter cladding, a hulk-
ing virtual vegetable scraper
Pushy on its erratic, dit-dah horizontal
haunches, dispersing its jotted tremble-lights
for all the world, so mind-fill-
streaky:
Mostly, however, it glowers
like a stiff-backed,
pissed-off
peppermill.