What’s in those pills?
After lunch and I can
hardly keep my eyes
open. Oh, for someone to
talk small talk with.
Even a dog would do.
Why are they hammering
iron outside? And what
is that generator whose
fierce hum comes in
the window? What is a
poem, anyway.
The daffodils, the heather
and the freesias all
speak to me. I speak
back, like St Francis
and the wolf of Gubbio.
Source: Schuyler, James. Collected Poems. New York: The Nooday Press, 1998. Print.
After James Schuyler
the daffodils that hammer
iron outside all day daff
odils that poem any
way they hammer iron what’s
that wolf say my governor
oh for someone like me i
speak to talk a small speck to
me i bark back at st francis
poem hammering iron
outside the window what’s this
that they iron outside in
the street i presume it is
the street and what of that fierce
hum that comes like a poem
through the unhealthy hatch the
ill hatch the daffodils cried