Tag: Tom Clark

“Born Yesterday”

by

Tom Clark

---

The concept of evil, as long ago 
Symbolized by the devil, has evolved 
Over centuries into the concept 
Of men, as delineated by (let's 
Call her) Naima, Halloween night 
At Fertile Grounds, where she stood 
Demurely chatting with Ayman, the handsome 
Proprietor (think Omar Sharif 
With soul and twinkle) at closing time, 
As I poked my ancient nose in and said 
"Trick or treat." Ayman offered a knuckle 
Bump solidarity hello—alone there 
By the counter with lovely young Naima, 
Who, when I said, What's new, smiled 
Ever so sweetly and said, "Men are evil!" 
Feeling it ungracious to disagree 
I didn't, for a moment. But then—
Well, solidarity is solidarity. 
"What about Ayman?" I said. "Ayman 
Doesn't look evil to me." Naima 
Fixed upon Ayman a glance of great 
Critical probity, smiled and said, "Hmm," 
A moment passed, pregnant, perhaps 
With reconsideration. Exceptions 
Prove rules are basically dumb, 
And really, that's the trouble, after all, 
With generalization. And what of love? 
"Isn't love," I ventured, "a matter of 
Recognizing someone has flaws 
And trying to help them limit the damage?" 
More thought. "Yes, that's exactly what it is," 
Naima said. And to myself I said, 
One point for a draw, quit while you're not losing. 
I fell out the door, squeezing between raindrops. 
Two ten-year-old girls walked past, one with horns, 
The other peeping from a full body cast. 
You forgot your treat, Ayman called out, 
Holding up a bag of old pastries 
From the "Born Yesterday" basket. 

“Hazard Response”

by

Tom Clark

---

As in that grey exurban wasteland in Gatsby
When the white sky darkens over the city
Of ashes, far from the once happy valley,
This daze spreads across the blank faces
Of the inhabitants, suddenly deprived
Of the kingdom’s original promised gift.
Did I say kingdom when I meant place
Of worship? Original when I meant
Damaged in handling? Promised when
I meant stolen? Gift when I meant
Trick? Inhabitants when I meant slaves?
Slaves when I meant clowns
Who have wandered into test sites? Test
Sites when I meant contagious hospitals?
Contagious hospitals when I meant clouds
Of laughing gas? Laughing gas
When I meant tears? No, it’s true,
No one should be writing poetry
In times like these, Dear Reader,
I don’t have to tell you of all people why.
It’s as apparent as an attempted
Punch in the eye that actually
Catches only empty air—which is
The inside of your head, where
The green ritual sanction
Of the poem has been cancelled.