This is a Wonderful Poem

1926 –

2021

Come at it carefully, don’t trust it, that isn’t its right name,
It’s wearing stolen rags, it’s never been washed, its breath
Would look moss-green if it were really breathing,
It won’t get out of the way, it stares at you
Out of eyes burnt gray as the sidewalk,
Its skin is overcast with colorless dirt,
It has no distinguishing marks, no I.D. cards,
It wants something of yours but hasn’t decided
Whether to ask for it or just take it,
There are no policemen, no friendly neighbors,
No peacekeeping busybodies to yell for, only this
Thing standing between you and the place you were headed,
You have about thirty seconds to get past it, around it,
Or simply to back away and try to forget it,
It won’t take no for an answer: try hitting it first
And you’ll learn what’s trembling in its torn pocket.
Now, what do you want to do about it?

The Shooting of John Dillinger Outside the Biograph Theater, July 22, 1934

Chicago ran a fever of a hundred and one that groggy Sunday.
A reporter fried an egg on a sidewalk; the air looked shaky.
And a hundred thousand people were in the lake like shirts in 
   a laundry.
Why was Johnny lonely?
Not because two dozen solid citizens, heat-struck, had keeled
   over backward.
Not because those lawful souls had fallen out of their sockets
   and melted.
But because the sun went down like a lump in a furnace or a
   bull in the Stockyards.
Where was Johnny headed?
Under the Biograph Theater sign that said, “Our Air is
   Refrigerated.”
Past seventeen FBI men and fo

David Wagoner

1966

The Junior High School Band Concert

When our semi-conductor
Raised his baton, we sat there
Gaping at Marche Militaire,
Our mouth-opening number.
It seemed faintly familiar
(We’d rehearsed it all that winter),
But we attacked in such a blur,
No army anywhere
On its stomach or all fours
Could have squeezed through our crossfire.

I played cornet, seventh chair,
Out of seven, my embouchure
A glorified Bronx cheer
Through that three-keyed keyhole stopper
And neighborhood window-slammer
Where mildew fought for air
At every exhausted corner,
My fingering still unsure
After scaling it for a year
Except on the spit-valve lever.

E

David Wagoner

1999

Poems

This is a Wonderful Poem

More by this poet

The Shooting of John Dillinger Outside the Biograph Theater, July 22, 1934

The Junior High School Band Concert

Poems

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This is a Wonderful Poem

More by this poet

The Shooting of John Dillinger Outside the Biograph Theater, July 22, 1934

The Junior High School Band Concert

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