Alfred Moir speaks from the grave, puzzling over his own survival. He lists men he might have become—Indignation Jones, Willard Fluke, Jack McGuire—figures ruined by bitterness, failure, drink, or violence. He stood at the bar as a decoy, yet alcohol never soaked into him. He never killed anyone. Instead he “mounted a little in life,” and he credits a single book he happened to see in a Mason City window. But that only deepens the mystery: why did he notice it, and why did his soul respond? The mood is quiet, wondering, and strangely grateful—less pride than bewilderment at how accident or grace pulled him away from the fates that swallowed others. The repeated “why” questions give the poem an almost prayerful uncertainty, as if he cannot take credit for his own escape.
Alfred Moir — Summary
Why was I not devoured by self-contempt, And rotted down by indifference And impotent revolt like Indignation Jones? Why, with all of my errant steps Did I miss the fate of Willard Fluke? And why, though I stood at Burchard’s bar, As a sort of decoy for the house to the boys To buy the drinks, did the curse of drink Fall on me like rain that runs off, Leaving the soul of me dry and clean? And why did I never kill a man Like Jack McGuire? But instead I mounted a little in life, And I owe it all to a book I read. But why did I go to Mason City, Where I chanced to see the book in a window, With its garish cover luring my eye? And why did my soul respond to the book, As I read it over and over?