My heart sings like a Dalek
when I’m reading a collection of poems
and I come across a trifling
typographical error.
Somehow, it matters more
when it’s a poet I love,
like Luke Kennard or Ben Lerner,
rather than one I’ve merely bought
out of politeness at a gig
(mentioning no names,
of which there are many).
Just now, on line nine,
page two-hundred-and-six
of Dean Young’s ‘Bender’
I spot an erroneous indentation.
‘Get in there!’ as my former colleagues
in the PE Department used to say.
In other much-loved collections,
I have spotted
a ‘your’ instead of a ‘you’,
and a ‘too’ instead of a ‘to’.
I proofread the typeset
of my latest tour d’absurdité
to within an inch
of its ridiculous little life.
It was perfect.
One hundred percent no mistakes,
and no mistake.
But there, on the page that no one reads,
‘Copyright 2020…
the author asserts, etc…
All rights reserved.
This edition published by Burning Eye,
2019.’
Wait! What?
Put your head in your hands, Ferg;
at least it’ll stop you
from banging it
against the nearest flat, hard surface.
The page that no one reads,
including me.
And I repeat my new mantra,
‘Should I take anything seriously?’
over and over and over
and remind myself of my favourite barb:
‘You have to laugh at yourself
every once in a while;
after all – everyone else does.’
According to many a spiritual sage,
‘There are no mistakes in the universe’,
and I wonder if there’s any mileage
in pursuing the idea that
there is perfection in imperfection.
The main thing is that no one
is likely to notice (let alone care)
and I resolve
never to tell anyone.
