Oh, he might have been
boss
of the best super-market in town,
Bright with banners and chrome, where housewives push carts
up and down,
And morning and night
Walked the street with his credit A-rated and blood pressure
right,
His boy a dentist in Nashville, his girl at State Normal;
Or a scientist flushed with
Time-cover
renown
For vaccine, or bomb, or smog-removal;
Or a hero with phiz like hewn cedar, though young for the
stars of a general,
Descending the steps to his personal plane to view the home–
town unveiling.
But no, never now!-battle-cunning, the test tube, retailing,
All,
all,
in a helter-skeltering mish-mash thrown
To that clobber and grind, too soon, between the box cars.
But what
is
success, or failure, at the last?
The newspaper whirled down the track when the through-
freight has passed
Will
sink
from that gust
To
be
of such value as it intrinsically must,
And why should we grieve for the name that boy might have
made
To
be
printed on paper like that for that blast
To whirl with the wheels' fanfaronade,
When we cannot even remember his name, nor humbly have
prayed
That when that blunt grossness, slam-banging, bang-slamming,
blots black the last blue of sky,
And our own lips utter the crazed organism's cry,
We may know the poor self not alone, but with all who are
cast
To that clobber and slobber and grunt, between the box cars?
