Home > Journaling the Apocalypse > Elegy for the Newborn

Elegy for the Newborn

October 9, 2008

The librarian doesn’t care
as she once might have
that the books I’m returning
are missing some words.
Then I come to a forest,
dark, mossy clouds
like morbid thoughts
not even drugs can dispel.
A yellow cab, its engine running,
is always waiting at the curb
for a messiah to appear.
It’s the difference between
a democracy and a republic,
and though there’s no wind,
the puddles shiver.
My face reminds most people
of someone they knew long ago,
before the assassinations
and roadside bombings.
I stop to rest with the newborn
on the border of shrill gulls.

by Howie Good

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  1. October 9, 2008 at 10:16 am

    Damn, that’s good.

    My face reminds most people
    of someone they knew long ago

    That’s just terrific.

  2. October 9, 2008 at 11:53 am

    Howie — I love how you straddle the mundane and the mythic, like Gaiman does in American Gods.

    Missing some words…

  3. October 9, 2008 at 3:38 pm

    Great poem, mythic. I love the part about how the puddles shiver, even though there’s no wind. Hearing your voice adds an extra spark to the whole experience.

  4. Howie Good
    October 15, 2008 at 7:50 am

    Just want to say thanks to those above for their generous responses — thanks.

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