I’m so tired of disappointed men
Who sit in cabins pecking
Invectives on archaic Underwoods.

Don’t even think of knocking
On a Unabomber’s door, offering
Tuna casserole or chicken pot pie.

These guys feed on themselves.
They love their own thin blood
And overactive spleen.

And they have no qualms about
Sticking a stamp, even a pretty one,
Yellow roses or steamboats

To a letter bomb,
Blow up you or me
Or plain old “occupant” by accident.

Hey, to a Unabomber guy
We’re black type, white space
A flat sheet of onionskin.

And with their little metal fists
They pound, pound,
Pound in the dim light.

Spring, l997