By Amy Beeder b. 1964 Amy Beeder
I see you shuffle up Washington Street   
whenever I am driving much too fast:   
you, chub & bug-eyed, jaw like a loaf   
hands in your pockets, a smoke dangling slack   
from the slit of your pumpkin mouth,   
humped over like the eel-man or geek,   
the dummy paid to sweep out gutters,   

drown the cats. Where are you going now?   
Though someday you'll turn your gaze   
upon my shadow in this tinted glass   
I know for now you only look ahead   
at sidewalks cracked & paved with trash
but what are you slouching toward—knee-locked,   
hippity, a hitch in your zombie walk, Bighead?

Source: Poetry (February 2004).


This poem originally appeared in the February 2004 issue of Poetry magazine

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February 2004
 Amy  Beeder


A former human rights observer in Haiti and Suriname, and a high school teacher in West Africa, Amy Beeder balances an ear for meter with an often ominous tone, creating a musical, at times mythical, exploration of how we construct beauty and strangeness. Critic Sandra Gilbert declared that Burn the Field (2006) “constitutes an impressive debut for a writer who reveres the heft, texture, and taste of words.”
Writing in the . . .

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Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Relationships, Friends & Enemies

POET’S REGION U.S., Southwestern

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