Paul D. McGlynn





Mild day, a milky sky.

Just before lunch, two men arrive,

Tell you it’s time to be born.

You don’t argue with such briskness,

And they invite no questions.

You contend you’ve already been born,

But they don’t respond.

Birds sing ecstatic as you slide into their car.


Outside the city, narrow country roads.

Sheep grazing on hillsides,

Some dye-coded, red and green.

You’ll be born in a distant city,

The driver says.  Doesn’t matter which.

You’ll have kindly parents, a sister,

A bizarre old uncle, who—

He stops.  Neither speaks again.


Curves, valleys. An algebra of trees.

Thoughts.  You’re to be born, and that is that.

Almost evening.  No traffic on this road,

A V of geese in the fading west.

The car speeds faster yet.

Copyright © 2003 Paul D. McGlynn.  All Rights Reserved.

Back Home Next