The sign on Atwood Avenue says
HUNGRY, HUNGRY, HUNGRY! And he is
For old memories in books, for movies
He has head about but never seen,
For the pizza awaiting him at State and Lake,
For his pregmant wife on Johnson Street,
For the dead hours when he can read
C. Wright Mills and Kerouac with light
From street lamps on the square
Before the Sundat morning shuttle
Of drunks to the bar on Packers Avenue
Allowed t o open at eight a.m. and the good
Though non-tipping communicants going
To early mass in the center of town;
There is a fare at the 400 Bar,
And he speeds down Williamson to get it,
Taking a generous grunk who wants no change
For his dollar when he gets to Regent Street,
Then back for pizza, then a short haul
To the Belmont where he can munch
And leave greasy stains on The Power Elite
And loook up now and them at the dome
With Miss Forward on top and recalling
Jane Adams writing about her girlfriend
And seeing Old Abe there, a famous
Bird, the stuffed remains of the
Eagle mascot of the Wisconsin militia
At Shiloh and later, the effigy admired
By nostalgic veterans, but there no longer,
Destroyed by fire decades ago,
For old Abe was no phoenix;
But the scholar cabbie can see it
Along with the small bent girl
And aging men with tear-wet beards;
The cabbie's mind shifts sideways
As he wonders whether Frank Lloyd Wright
Looked on Old Abe and envied the dome
So well-sited and how early he thought
Of complimenting it with a circular
Sweep into Lake Monona, a plan
Recently scuttled but seen anyhow
Spreading east over Dotty Street by
A cabbie possessed with past and future
Already wanting to be home listening
For life in his wife's belly while
Watching Camera Three on a round tube
Echoing past dome and future terrace,
Staying hungry in all dimensions.
