The day before the 1996 Democratic National Convention
By Patrick T. Reardon
They were famous and short,
the two of them and the folkie others,
guitarless, skittering and kittering
around the empty afternoon stage
like eight-year-old cousins
who see each other rarely
and make the most of it when they do.
He was that night’s musical headliner,
sideshow to the pols,
who I saw out of the corner of my eye
as I headed for an interview with the ex-radical,
ex-movie star husband, ex-state senator.
She was frumpy who, that night, on stage
would be as sexy as three open blouse buttons.
Not frumpy, ordinary, washed out,
even ugly in a distinctive way
as if a saint or royalty or a blues singer.
At Target, she would have been just me or you,
on the bus, in a line for one of her concerts.
They were 46 or so, my age.
I was tall, and I never skittered.
Back in school, I would have been a hall monitor
if my school had hall monitors,
stiff as a board, walking always into the wind,
this day stiff with duty
to find and record the ex-radical,
still full of words.
They skittered and frittered
as I moved past in a hurry
on my way to somewhere backstage.
They buried my story
the next day in the paper.
Patrick T. Reardon
8.21.24
This poem originally appeared in my book Darkness on the Face of the Deep.
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/.