TO THE MAN IN A LODEN COAT
Hey, mister
man in a loden coat
standing in front of me
on the escalator and blocking my
way—
I know
I'm self absorbed,
particularly at this hour,
5:22 to be precise and I need
to make the 5:25 home—
don't you know that in this city,
in this life, we
walk on the left,
stand on the right?
Don't tell me to chill out,
don't tell me to "breathe,"
I hate breathing
I mean unless it is happening
without my knowing it,
which is, thank God, most of the time,
and don't tell me life is long
because it actually isn't
it's all I can do not to
give you a sweet shove
on your rich loden back,
same as all the bottled-up
left-lane travelers
behind me want to do
to my own navy-clad shoulder,
a nice blue to your green,
like water for the earth,
sky for the forest,
green and blue a tea for two,
etc., among the vistas
that call me home now,
at 5:23, about to miss the bus,
so would you please
MOVE OVER?
— Deborah Garrison
from The Second Child. © Random House, 2007
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying,
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
~ Robert Herrick
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