A new poem from Charles Simic.
There are one or two murderers in any crowd.
They do not suspect their destinies yet.
Wars are started to make it easy for them
To kill that woman pushing a baby carriage.
They pace their cages or shy away from us
Listening to something we can’t hear yet.
The coffin makers are hammering everywhere.
The strawberries are already in season
And so are the scallions and radishes.
A young man buys roses, another rides
A bike through the traffic using no hands.
Old fellow bending over the curb to vomit,
Betake thee to thy own place of torment.
The sky at sunset is red with grilling coals.
A hand in a greasy pot-holder hovers over us all.