The Penguin

[inspired by a Charlie Hankin cartoon in the New Yorker, 6 Nov. 2023] Late night in a bitter winter, as I proofread where my printer * Cockeyed lines I’d launched at witless critic or poet-wannabe— While I sat there long adjudging P/Q botches, tired and drudging, Suddenly I felt a nudging, nudging at my trousers knee. “​’Tis some errant draft,” I grumbled, “budging at my trousers knee— Nothing else is here to see.” But the nudging still repeated, like some foe yet undefeated, So I turned and gazed well over to the floor beyond my knee— There stood a Penguin staring at me, as if ever boldly daring, Not for ranks or titles caring, with his black eyes lock’d to me; Not for fall of empires caring, in his sable eyes thou’d see— Stood, and said, just: “Doo… Mee.” “Ah!” said I, “Doom’s Harbinger!—From whom the messenger? At least this note is less vague than what the last bird brought to me. Now I know to ask such matters as when and how and where doom scatters All ​’round; skip mere patters like repeating thyself to me. Else, I swear, thou’lt rue the day thou ever tried to go through me— Plainly explain: ‘Doo… Mee.’” “Friend,” the piebald bird exclaimed, “my very first two words explained All I ever wanted or could want from a writer such as thee: Verses as once made a Raven famous here and in his haven. But if thou’rt too drunk or craven, there’s one more for me to see: Deep in time, my work awaits; Breathèd will be the lad for me— The artist to do me!” _______________ * [At the Broadway Journal, the only periodical Poe ever owned.]