With apologies to Wallace Stevens
I was of three minds,
Like a “Here’s the Thing” podcast
In which Alec debates the evolution of 70s feminism with Erica Jong and her daughter, Molly Jong-Fast.
Alec’s hair whirled in the blow dryer.
It was a small part of the dressing room.
A man and a woman
A man and a woman listening to Alec interview Billy Joel
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
Jack Donaghy saying “We have to synergize backward overflow”
Or just after.
The carp po’ boy with extra chuckle filled Liz Lemon’s colon
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of Jack Donaghy
Crossed her bathroom door, to and fro.
Traced in the Peppy Bismilk
An indecipherable condition.
O thin men of Union Square yoga classes,
Why do you imagine Hilaria will ever come back?
Do you not see how Alec Baldwin
Walks around the mats
Of the women lying in savasana around you?
I know Long Island accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That Alec Baldwin is involved
In what I know.
When Alec Baldwin flew to the Hamptons,
His helicopter marked the edge
Of one of many flight patterns.
At the sight of Alec Baldwin
Flying in at sunset,
All the middle-aged divorcées
Would cry out sharply.
He rode over Connecticut
In a plexiglass bubble.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his helicopter
His mother wants him to look at her taxes.
Jack Donaghy must be having a heart attack.
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
Alec Baldwin sat
In the make-up chair running his lines with a nervous Will Arnett.
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