A SICK CHILD
~ by Randall Jarrell
The postman comes while I am still in bed.
“Postman, what do you have for me today?”
I say to him. (But really I’m in bed.)
Then he says– what shall I have him say?
“This letter says that you are president
Of this world here, it’s a republic.”
Tell them I can’t answer right away.
“It’s your duty.” No, I’d rather just be sick.
Then he tells me there are letters saying everything
That I can think of that I want for them to say.
I say, “Well, thank you very much. Good-bye.”
He is ashamed, and turns and walks away.
If I can think if it, it isn’t what I want.
I want…I want a ship from some near star
To land in the yard, and beings to come out
And think to me, “So this is where you are!
Come.” Except that they won’t do,
I thought of them….Yet somewhere there must be
Something that’s different from everything.
All that I’ve never thought of– think of me!