About the Poem
Sometimes you just put down what happens, and it turns out it's a choking feeling in your throat, or a bit of someone's life, or both; you write it down and call it a poem.
No Title, It Just Happened
|by Ted Reynolds|
|Puttering in my yard, and this guy comes down the street.
Stands a long time on the walk staring at the house.
Age is relative, like if I'm mature, this guy is OLD.
I ignore him, sometimes you get more mileage that way.
Finally he asks me how long the house has been here
(As if before that it had been somewhere else! )
"Sixty/seventy years, " I tell him, not that I know.
He nods slowly and looks at it again.
"Might be the same house, but I ain't sure. "
"Same house as what, " I ask, angling for the story,
There's always a story, if you care to find it.
"Well, " he says, "I don't remember the street name,
But it was this part of town, 'bout this far from the corner,
When she lived here." "She? " That was enough of a nudge.
I got the whole gist of it in the next two minutes.
During the war, "the *real* war" as he put it,
He was posted at the Willow Run airport for a while,
And there was a girl he sort of was fond of,
And then he was sent to the Pacific and ended up in South Cal,
And married and worked and retired and his wife died,
And one day after 50-some years he's back in Ypsilanti,
And looking for a house he hardly remembers
Because there was this girl, "her hair was sort of dark, "
But this probably isn't the house. Says he's got to move on.
I wish him good luck. "I hope you find her. "
He looks at me as if I'm slightly daft.
"Better I don't, " he says, "but thanks for the thought. "
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