Sunday Poem: Catherine Clarke

Why the Ride Is Longer on Certain Days

Ah the poor bastard talks to himself on the subway.
Books under one arm, nothing he says makes sense.
We avoid him, disconnected.
Want him to get off at Central, and he does.

He had hair the color of straw in sunlight.
Eyes. The man had eyes like anybody else.

The leaf is twisted but the tree is fine.
The tree is twisted but the land is fine.
So, the train moves on, in the dark,
too close to the walls. We cough.

I knew a girl who lived in a well.
She called and called, her long hair beautiful,
but no one came. We talk to ourselves.

It is light and impossible arms that we imagine.

Catherine Clarke, Red Horse (Providence, RI: Copper Beech Press, 1981).
Copyright © Catherine Clarke, 1981