There’s a Kind of Hush
Tom Wayman
The poem is for all things tonight
that are tender and alone:
the tiny kitten with curled paws asleep
on the bed, as I sit reading what
the students have used
to hide themselves:
the formula essay copied
to tell of a lost boyfriend,
the death of a father.
Lines to announce
I am not going to like
what they are about to say,
that they can’t possibly explain what they feel.
Words written slowly at the desks
in the dormitories, nervous because
they are late, because they will not please.
Hunted out on the typewriter
between supper and math
or a date. Worried later.
Sweated. Alone. Ashamed.
The poem
is for myself, at two
in the morning, opening the refrigerator
in the quiet: how I came to have
these oranges, that celery,
the sandwiches.
And for all those frightened and lonely
dying tonight: in pain and in fire
or little by little
here and in Asia
that my coffee should be warm,
the lights burn, the pen move,
these hours be still
for the marking.
Wayman, Tom. “There’s a Kind of Hush.” Waiting for Wayman. Toronto: McClelland, 1973. 44.