I shall commit suicide or die trying, Walter thought beside the Thames -- at low tide and very feminine. Picture him: a cold November day, the world through a long lens; he's in new blue pants and races the river for thirty-three steps. Walter won. Hands down. Then lost again. Better to die trying! The sky so bleak. God blows his nose above the Chelsea Flour Mills. What is he at forty, Nov. 9, 1978, so far from home: grist for his own mill; all things have become black-and-white without hormonal surge. And religious. He's forgiven god for the one hundred ladies who turned him down and took him up. O that song -- I asked her for water and she gave me kerosene. No visions of Albion, no visions at all, in fact, the still point of the present winding about itself, graceful, unsnarled. I am here today and gone tomorrow. How much is he here? Not quite with all his heart and soul. Step lightly or the earth revolves into a berserk spin. Fall off or dance. And choosing dance not god, at least for the time being. Things aren't what they seem but what they are -- infinitely inconsolable. He knows it's irony that's least valuable in this long deathwatch. Irony scratching its tired ass. No trade-offs with time and fortune. It's indelicate to say things twice except in prayer. The drunk repeats to keep his grasp, a sort of prayer: the hysteria of the mad, a verbless prayer. Walter recrossed the bridge which was only a bridge. He heard his footsteps just barely behind him. The river is not where it starts and ends. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MARTHA WASHINGTON by SIDNEY LANIER YOUNG BULLFROGS by CARL SANDBURG THAT KIND OF POEM' by KAREN SWENSON A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 18 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN WINTERTIME by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON VERSES ADDRESSED TO IMITATOR OF FIRST SATIRE OF HORACE by MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU |