The New Yorker
Donald Reilly died June 18, 2006, at age 72.
He created 1,107 cartoons for The New Yorker.
by Cathy Barber
I’m a poet; I ought to turn first to the poems,
the three shortish, tasteful, doublewide columns
in black, faintly fresh ink. As a writer, I should move on
to the fiction, T. Coraghessan Boyle, John Updike.
As a liberal, the news notes at the front ought to pull heavily.
No. I read the cartoons. I flip fwap, fwap, fwap,
through the pages, leaning against the cold kitchen counter
before sorting the real estate post cards from the bills and
rejections. I carry the magazine to the fridge, to the toaster,
back to the counter, cinnamon toast held whole by my teeth,
never taking my hand off The New Yorker, my eyes off
those pen and ink worlds. One child to another,
“What kind of water does your mother buy?” One penguin
to his sunglass-sporting companion, “Oh, get over yourself.
We were all in the movie.”
“The New Yorker” was published in Two Review.