all the coughing in this library.all the threadbare gloves.every sniffle. as the sky goes purpleover the firs, the lights in here feel so bright.a globe in the children’s area.a lego map of returning.computers and computers and“thank you for respecting others”also means “please no obvious porn.”a woman with a face like a free paperbag in a pikachu hat. cartoon merchfrom a free bin.all the standing, waiting for computers,pretending to browse CDs, magazines,hoping to check e-mail before 8pm.after 8, there is no where to be for
the crawl of injured crows.the burns in the yard, strewn cigarettes.the jackhammer clang.the clipboard girl’s ponytail.the three cop cars by the north entrance.the maple bar scent, wafting.the laughing men throw back their heads.the laughing women hold their stomachs.the sun, breaking over the bbq stand.the sun, breaking over the cheap seafood kiosk.the sun, breaking over the apartments on the lake.the rain, breaking the sun.the crowd, gathered by the corner,waiting for a light, or a bus, or a man in a car,or a woman in heels, grows and shrinks,but never disappears.
Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
The sudden death of Eugene CarmanPut me in line to be promoted to fifty dollars a month,And I told my wife and children that night.But it didn’t come, and so I thoughtOld Rhodes suspected me of stealingThe blankets I took and sold on the sideFor money to pay a doctor’s bill for my little girl.Then like a bolt old Rhodes accused me,And promised me mercy for my family’s sakeIf I confessed, and so I confessed,And begged him to keep it out of the papers,And I asked the editors, too.That night at home the constable took meAnd every paper, except the Clarion,Wrote me up as a thiefBecause old Rhodes was an advertiser
How does it happen, tell me,That I who was most erudite of lawyers,Who knew Blackstone and CokeAlmost by heart, who made the greatest speechThe court-house ever heard, and wroteA brief that won the praise of Justice BreeseHow does it happen, tell me,That I lie here unmarked, forgotten,While Chase Henry, the town drunkard,Has a marble block, topped by an urnWherein Nature, in a mood ironical,Has sown a flowering weed?