Thursday, February 20, 2014
"A SICK CHILD" BY RANDALL JARRELL
A SICK CHILD
The postman comes when I am still in bed.
"Postman, what do you have for me today?"
I say to him. (But really I'm in bed.)
Then he says - what shall I have him say?
"This letter says that you are president
Of - this word here; it's a republic."
Tell them I can't answer right away.
"It's your duty." No, I'd rather just be sick.
Then he tells me there are letters saying everything
That I can think of that I want for them to say.
I say, "Well, thank you very much. Good-bye."
He is ashamed, and turns and walks away.
If I can think of it, it isn't what I want.
I want . . . I want a ship from some near star
To land in the yard, and beings to come out
And think to me: "So this is where you are!
Come." Except that they won't do,
I thought of them. . . . And yet somewhere there must be
Something that's different from everything.
All that I've never thought of - think of me!
"All that I've never thought of - think of me!"
The other day, out walking, I thought, I wonder if heaven if there's another color, a new color, a color beyond or outside the colors we know on earth. Wouldn't that be wild? Think of it: no human being can imagine or create a color other than the colors we already have.
Maybe there is such a color. And maybe it's thinking of us!