8pm, Sandymount Beach Poem by Douglas Scotney

Sometimes an author's
while-to-get-a-go-on is more of a
while than a reader can bear, more than a bearable
while;
so he sees something he likes on 158
and starts there.

Ratchets back or
leapfrogs later...
leapsfrogs...
leapsfrog.

At least that's what he did with Wallace
whose unbearable while,
24 pages,
may have come
from having his shoes squeezed*
from an early age
which acts
may have turned him into a computer
and taken that many pages
to disengage.

*P.156. Wallace, David Foster. 'The Pale King'. Little, Brown and Co. N.Y.2011.
And if you're impatient about the details of his dad's horrifying death in the Chicago Subway, it's on page 197.