Create a poster of a poem.

Marty Nemko

No business

I'd like to have my friend's poem laid out in calligraphy (perhaps computer-generated, perhaps hand-done calligraphy) plus tasteful adornment of the page. The deliverables I'll want are an Microsoft Word or pdf file of it as well as two printed-out copies on high-quality ivory or white heavy paper that's approximately 11" x 14" One would be mailed to Marty Nemko, 5936 Chabolyn Terrace, Oakland, CA USA. The other would be mailed to Scott Lubbock, P.O. Box 5250, Eugene, OR 97405, USA. Here's the poem:

TRAVEL GAME

Roofs. This time roofs. I have done fences, cars, lawns,
And yesterday trees. From train windows. That’s the
Whole idea. To purchase your ticket on a train, sit by
The window and give special attention to a particular
Detail of the countryside. This time I chose roofs on
The train ride from Paris to Chartres in the morning
And back in the late afternoon, trying not to be overly
Distracted by the man sorting through trash bags for
A meal. The purpose of the game is not to ignore the
World, pleasant or unpleasant, the reeking homeless
Or the vacationing privileged or those simply going
To and from work or school. It is simply an exercise
In observation, a story telling game, and each story
Begins with a roof. Today. Tomorrow’s stories may
All begin with farm animals, inviting a very different
Kind of tale, or whatever tote or purse or bag my
Fellow passengers are carrying. I say ‘passengers’
Because the story will decide if they are travelers or
Students or commuters or strangers in flight from.

But today it is roofs, speculations about what has
Occurred under that rugged country thatch, wild
Guesses about dreams once in residence where
Heavy tiles caved in, circumstances that determined
The tight, neat patches of different colored asphalt
Shingles on a farmhouse roof, thoughts about who
Might have given up what and moved on when the
Barn collapsed or was a bright green metal roof
Enough to convince someone to stay when a home
Among the trees became grey and weathered. Does
Plastic tarping tell a story of despair or patience. I
Could be right or wrong about every supposition,
Every writer’s invention, but only about which
Story happened where. Someone was born or died,
Played or cried, saw a hope manifested or broken
Under each roof, and tonight I will sleep in Paris.

This is simply a gift to a friend of mine, who is the author of that poem.