Friday, March 15, 2013
Okay, no, not really.
I have plenty of friends who do not share my love of Billy Collins, or even my love of poetry.
But, honestly, if you can read this poem and not be the slightest bit moved by Billy's (I get to call him Billy because I've blogged about him excessively), powers of observation and endearing existential angst, well, then, I just don't think we can spend Poetry Friday together.
by Billy Collins
At the gate, I sit in a row of blue seats
with the possible company of my death,
this sprawling miscellany of people—
carry-on bags and paperbacks—
that could be gathered in a flash
into a band of pilgrims on the last open road.
Not that I think
if our plane crumpled into a mountain
we would all ascend together,
It's just that the way that man has his briefcase
so carefully arranged,
the way that girl is cooling her tea,
and the flow of the comb that woman
passes through her daughter's hair ...
(Read the whole poem here, at The Writer's Almanac.)
Check out the round up today at Check It Out.