Wallace Stevens Walking to Work
Walking to work, head bowed, heedless of the passing cars and the schoolkids on bikes,
you are somewhere far from Hartford, Connecticut, and its ordinary folk.
You stroll the sunny Yucatan or moonlit Madagascar . . . Perhaps you walk the nothingness
beyond the hinges of the stars, escorted by the cherubim you don't really believe in:
So who can say where you really are?
Not the kids on bikes or the faces in the passing cars. Perhaps not even you . . .
Still, you walk to work, with your head bent to some noiseless fugue
like a snake-charmer before a brilliant serpent-- enchanted by its emerald eyes,
waiting to be stung by the long black flickering tongue.
copyright 2001 Phoebe Claire Publishing, LLC All rights reserved