The postman comes when I am still in bed. <br />"Postman, what do you have for me today?" <br />I say to him. (But really I'm in bed.) <br />Then he says - what shall I have him say? <br /> <br />"This letter says that you are president <br />Of - this word here; it's a republic." <br />Tell them I can't answer right away. <br />"It's your duty." No, I'd rather just be sick. <br /> <br />Then he tells me there are letters saying everything <br />That I can think of that I want for them to say. <br />I say, "Well, thank you very much. Good-bye." <br />He is ashamed, and turns and walks away. <br /> <br />If I can think of it, it isn't what I want. <br />I want . . . I want a ship from some near star <br />To land in the yard, and beings to come out <br />And think to me: "So this is where you are! <br /> <br />Come." Except that they won't do, <br />I thought of them. . . . And yet somewhere there must be <br />Something that's different from everything. <br />All that I've never thought of - think of me!<br /><br />Randall Jarrell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-sick-child/
