Recently I joined an on-line Quaker Poetry Group, to share our poems with eachother and make (constructive) comments. Below is my first submission stimulated by joining the group.
Worcester, Massachusetts, November 22, 1963
That sunny afternoon, as I monitored an exam,
I looked forward to your coming.
Our first date -- dinner that evening.
Your tweed jacket,
The pipe you hadn't learned to smoke,
Your spectacled face -
Just what I wanted.
Through the classroom windows, the sirens screamed.
The students stopped writing.
Why were the police cars tearing up and down
Worcester's main street? A loudspeaker blared
Undecipherable words.
Then: "The President's been shot."
It couldn't be. False rumours?
The world watched, shocked,
Glued to TV screens.
"...taken to the hospital...two priests are with him..."
"The President died at 2 p.m. Eastern Standard Time."
Evening. You came. A private warmth surrounded us.
In the restaurant we were the only customers.
Safe in our personal bubble,
We spoke of the world coming to an end
While we were just beginning.
April 5, 2014
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