Summer 1954 • Vol. XVI No. 3 Poetry |

The Deaths at Paragon, Indiana

1. Sandra, the waitress Sun streaked the coffee urn And wrote Al's Lunch across the cups. I saw no harm in summer then, And held against the scorching sun A spring, touching the deepest earth, That trickled in the bearded tub Behind the store. But nothing holds When fire levels on the frying concrete. Thermometer said, "Go easy, girl. Dodge trouble." And so I fed The truckers, watching the tube of coffee Twitch along the urn, the street Repeat itself along the mirror. I washed an egg beneath the tap. Then, too sudden for the mind, The car came rolling, spraying parts And boys across the road outside. He came, and comes forever, sliding Headfirst into the curb, bursting. The egg broke below my hand. O this to say: his arm was bent Behind his back, the dust and leaves Crawled downstream in the gutter. O this to hope: someday his staring Eyes will close upon my dream. 2. Goss, the ambulance driver My head goes reeling in the siren, But I hold the road. Muscles Keep the o

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Night Constable

By John Woods

1. Sandra, the waitress Sun streaked the coffee urn And wrote Al's Lunch across the cups. I saw no harm in summer then, And held against the scorching sun A […]

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