November 5: "Delivery," Election Night, Compassion and Intelligence

Yes, it is election night.  Yes, I have been watching election returns since about 8 p.m.

No, I'm not going to comment on what's going on.  (I'm sure I will in the coming days, but not now.)  All I will say right now is that I'm still hoping compassion and intelligence prevails, not hatred and stupidity.  

Billy Collins wants his bad news to be gift-wrapped . . . 

Delivery

by: Billy Collins

Moon in the upper window,
shadow of my crooked pen on the page,
and I find myself wishing that the news of my death

might be delivered not by a dark truck
but by a child's attempt to draw that truck--
the long rectangular box of the trailer,

some lettering on the side,
then the protruding cab, the ovoid wheels,
maybe the inscrutable profile of a driver,

and puffs of white smoke
issuing from the tailpipe, drawn like flowers
and similar in their expressions to the clouds in the sky, only smaller.

Collins is sugar-coating death, making it wonderfully childlike, almost beautiful.

It has been raining all day long.  As I sit typing this post, I can still hear it coming down hard against the window behind me.  It's a pleasant, calming sound compared to what's being said on the television right now.  

That's all Saint Marty wants to say tonight.  If you are stressed, stop and listen to the rain.