The topic of typesetting in class stuck with me for some reason, so I ended up thinking for a whole about Whitman’s life and the stark contrast between the Brooklyn of his time and the borough I know now. I drifted on it a bit (mostly to watch the MTV Music Awards) and came up with a poem (that I might continue later) called: ‘A moment in the life’. For the sake having a plot, imagine a random Brooklynite (not technically a word…) thrown back through the years to the time of Walt Whitman.
It’s not a complete poem yet (since I still have a lot of material to use and a few revisions to go through). I used Whitman’s job at the Patriot, the longer commute between work and home and some of his father’s alcoholic tendencies in this part of the poem, though I’m not sure how severe it was or whether or not his father was a violent drunk.

There’s no T.V.
I can’t text,
I can’t call,
I can’t Tweet.
There’s no electricity.
There’s no T.V.
How I got here is beyond me.
I’m printing homework one minute and the next time I look up?
I’m in another century.
On one of those ancient printing press thingies. How? Why? Don’t ask me.
Well…technically not printing…
More like making the ink.
I haven’t been here long, not more than a day.
But apparently I’m a printer’s apprentice.
The ‘Printer’s Devil’… what a name…
It’s not because the job’s evil… I think.
Maybe it has more to do with the fact you end up covered in that God forsaken ink.
At the end of the work day I let my feet carry me, as my mind drifts away.
It seems like hours…It probably was.
I’m spacey that way.
The lights around me are lit with gas, what with the lack of electricity.
I walk to the door of a nearby house and dig in my pocket for a key.
…I’m used to solid pavement, cars and trains…since when is my house surrounded by trees?
Judging from a sign on the corner, I’m somewhere in Long Island.
There’s still no T.V.
The smell of alcohol perforates the air.
There are bottles on the floor…
I don’t think I want to be here.
But my stomach grumbles- arguing otherwise and I can’t understand my sudden fear.
I mean, other than being in some foreign house in a strange time
Where you can buy expensive things for a dime
Where lights are lit by gas
Where printing is done by hand
Why ever would I need to be afraid?