New and Selected Poems by Charles Simic Page A

must be.
The Clocks of the Dead
One night I went to keep the clock company.
It had a loud tick after midnight
As if it were uncommonly afraid.
It’s like whistling past a graveyard,
I explained.
In any case, I told him I understood.
    Â 
Once there were clocks like that
In every kitchen in America.
Now the factory’s windows are all broken.
The old men on night shift are in Charon’s boat.
The day you stop, I said to the clock,
The little wheels they keep in reserve
Will have rolled away
Into many hard-to-find places.
    Â 
Just thinking about it, I forgot to wind the clock.
We woke up in the dark.
How quiet the city is, I said.
Like the clocks of the dead, my wife replied.
Grandmother on the wall,
I heard the snows of your childhood
Begin to fall.
Wanted Poster
From the closed, block-long post office
I heard him whisper
Out of his flyspecked mouth
As I hurried by on the street.
Hunted beast, he said,
His eyes dark and mean under the rusty thumbtacks.
Who furloughed you today
To go around grinning at every woman you meet?
Explaining a Few Things
Every worm is a martyr,
Every sparrow subject to injustice,
I said to my cat,
Since there was no one else around.
    Â 
It’s raining. In spite of their huge armies
What can the ants do?
And the roach on the wall
Like a waiter in an empty restaurant?
    Â 
I’m going in the cellar
To stroke the rat caught in a trap.
You watch the sky.
If it clears, scratch on the door.
The Supreme Moment
As an ant is powerless
Against a raised boot,
And only has an instant
To have a bright idea or two.
The black boot so polished,
He can see himself
Reflected in it, distorted,
Perhaps made larger
Into a huge monster ant
Shaking his arms and legs
Threateningly?
The boot may be hesitating,
Demurring, having misgivings,
Gathering cobwebs,
Dew?
Yes, and apparently no.
Crazy About Her Shrimp
We don’t even take time
To come up for air.
We keep our mouths full and busy
Eating bread and cheese
And smooching in between.
    Â 
No sooner have we made love
Than we are back in the kitchen.
While I chop the hot peppers,
She wiggles her ass
And stirs the shrimp on the stove.
    Â 
How good the wine tastes
That has run red
Out of a laughing mouth!
Down her chin
And onto her naked tits.
    Â 
“I’m getting fat,” she says,
Turning this way and that way
Before the mirror.
“I’m crazy about her shrimp!”
I shout to the gods above.
Transport
In the frying pan
On the stove
I found my love
And me naked.
    Â 
Chopped onions
Fell on our heads
And made us cry.
It’s like a parade,
I told her, confetti
When some guy
Reaches the moon.
    Â 
“Means of transport,”
She replied obscurely
While we fried.
“Means of transport!”
Love Flea
He took a flea
From her armpit
To keep
    Â 
And cherish
In a matchbox,
Even pricking his finger
    Â 
From time to time
To feed it
Drops of blood.
What I Overheard
In summer’s idle time,
When trees grow heavy with leaves
And spread shade everywhere
That is a delight to lie in
Alone
Or in the company of a dear friend,
    Â 
Dreaming or having a quiet talk
Without looking at each other,
Until she feels drowsy
As if after too much wine,
And you draw close for a kiss
On her cheek, and instead
Stay with lips pursed, listening
    Â 
To a bee make its rounds lazily,
And a far-off rooster crow
On the edge of sleep with the leaves hushed
Or rustling, ever so softly,
About something or other on their mind.
Leaves
Lovers who take pleasure
In the company of trees,
Who seek diversion after many kisses
In each other’s arms,
Watching the leaves,
    Â 
The way they quiver
At the slightest breath of wind,
The way they thrill,
And shudder almost individually,
One of them beginning to shake
While the others are still quiet,
Unaccountably, unreasonably—
    Â 
What am I saying?
One leaf in a million more fearful,
More happy,
Than all the others?
    Â 
On this oak tree casting
Such deep shade,
And my lids closing sleepily
With that