Every thing on the earth
Patrick T. Reardon
The Angel that presided o’er
my birth said, “Little creature,
form’d of Joy & Mirth, Go love
without the help of any Thing
on Earth.” — William Blake
She walked Red Sea Boulevard to the lake.
Walked past graystones and brownstones,
regal bungalows, two-flats, squat worker cottages,
past wall-like U-shaped apartment buildings,
sheening high-rises, dollar stores, laundromats,
past old mansions hived into clumsy kitchenettes,
sad Dunkin Donuts, the dress shop for quinceañeras.
In Toledo, he stole Gideon Bible from a Hyatt,
and put it in his bedroom dresser drawer.
Next time he looked, it was Gideon Koran.
Each night, he’d look and it was something different —
Gideon Book of Mormon, Gideon Bhagavad Gita,
Gideon Baseball Encyclopedia, Gideon OED,
Gideon Pride and Prejudice.
In blare-light dawn, she walked Red Sea Boulevard.
Along empty sidewalk,
uneven from soil heavings, root thrustings,
she walked, tiring as miles added up.
Along city wall, along shoreline wall, she walked.
Through clouds of birdsong.
He was alive only certain hours of the day.
Awoke at 11:14 a.m. from his stasis on the pedestal
and moved around until 7:39 p.m.
when he’d better be back on the stand or
it’d be embarrassing and uncomfortable.
He museumed his thoughts into
categories and schools, into
media, into pastels and etchings, into
the gift shop.
They met over Diet Cokes at cathedral McDonald’s.
Prayed together over French fries.
Sang together in the booth thanksgiving canticle:
Sun and moon! Stars of heaven!
Showers and dews! Winds! Fire and heat!
Dews and sleet! Light and darkness!.
Lightning and clouds! Mountains and hills!
Every thing on the earth and in
the air and under the earth, every thing that
has been and will be!
Bless!
They bowed their heads toward each other,
foreheads touching over the table,
skin-to-skin kiss.
Then, he had to leave. It was after 7.
She sat, garnering her strength.
Then, she had to walk to get where she was going.
I looked up to see her leave.
Then, went back to Don’t Cry, Scream.
Patrick T. Reardon
3.10.26
This poem originally appeared in my 2023 collection Let the Baby Sleep from In Case of Emergency Press in Australia.
Written by : Patrick T. Reardon
For more than three decades Patrick T. Reardon was an urban affairs writer, a feature writer, a columnist, and an editor for the Chicago Tribune. In 2000 he was one of a team of 50 staff members who won a Pulitzer Prize for explanatory reporting. Now a freelance writer and poet, he has contributed chapters to several books and is the author of Faith Stripped to Its Essence. His website is https://patricktreardon.com/.
I just ‘found’ you today. Looking up Faith Stripped to IT Essence now.
Hope you find the book interesting. Let me know what you think. Pat