Someone is dead. <br />Even the trees know it, <br />those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, <br />all pea-green scarfs and spine pole. <br />I think… <br />I think I could have stopped it, <br />if I'd been as firm as a nurse <br />or noticed the neck of the driver <br />as he cheated the crosstown lights; <br />or later in the evening, <br />if I'd held my napkin over my mouth. <br />I think I could… <br />if I'd been different, or wise, or calm, <br />I think I could have charmed the table, <br />the stained dish or the hand of the dealer. <br />But it's done. <br />It's all used up. <br />There's no doubt about the trees <br />spreading their thin feet into the dry grass. <br />A Canada goose rides up, <br />spread out like a gray suede shirt, <br />honking his nose into the March wind. <br />In the entryway a cat breathes calmly <br />into her watery blue fur. <br />The supper dishes are over and the sun <br />unaccustomed to anything else <br />goes an the way down.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lament-16/
