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OTHER POEMS
by McFee
 
The Tunnel

The Whistler

Old Baseball
found under a Bush

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Retirement

 

When you turn the familiar corner and find

some schoolkids kneedeep in a lot of pumpkins,

it is hard to keep driving.

You want to idle at the curb and watch them

wade through this treeless windfall,

looking for the class lantern.

When a little boy hoists a big one to his chest,

don't think, as I might, that he is like

Atlas wobbling under the globe

of his life, as if anyone could hold, once

but long ago, the impossible burden of his time,

so strangely brilliant and cut off.

Think instead of the sweet pie we will eat,

of the toothy likeness we will carve and light,

of your hands still harvest-ruddy.

from Plain Air

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