Celebrating the Best American Poetry 2018 at Villanova February 6, 2019 5:00 Connelly Center Cinema 6:15 (St. David’s Room) Reception and Book Signing Villanova University is honored to host the regional launch of the thirtieth anniversary edition of The Best American Poetry, guest edited by Dana Gioia, David Lehman, general editor. For three decades, the Best American Poetry has served as an annual occasion to recognize new work by American

authors; inclusion is one of the great honors established and emerging poets may receive. The anthology was officially launched at New York University, in September 2018, but Villanova now brings together six of the anthology’s authors, along with David Lehman, for an evening of reading, discussion, and fellowship on our campus. David Lehman will chair the event, which will feature short readings from six poets: Maryann Corbett, Ernest Hilbert, Mary Jo Salter, Adrienne Su, Ryan Wilson, and Villanova’s own James Matthew Wilson. The public is warmly invited to this special evening to celebrate the achievement of contemporary letters and to join us for food and conversation afterwards. This event is sponsored by the Honors

Program, the Villanova Center for Liberal Education, the Department of English, and the Department of Humanities. For more information, contact James Matthew Wilson, at james.m.wilson@villanova.edu

About the poets Maryann Corbett was born in Washington, DC, and grew up in northern Virginia. She earned a BA from the College of William and Mary and an MA and PhD from the University of Minnesota. She has published three books of poetry: Breath Control (2012); Credo for the Checkout Line in Winter (2013), which was a finalist for the Able Muse Book Prize; and Mid Evil (2014), the winner of the Richard Wilbur Award. In 2009, Corbett was the co-winner of the Willis Barnstone Translation Award. She lives in Saint Paul, Minnesota.

Ernest Hilbert’s debut poetry collection Sixty Sonnets (2009) was described by X.J. Kennedy as “maybe the most arresting sequence we have had since John Berryman checked out of America.” His second collection, All of You on the Good Earth (2013), has been hailed as a “wonder of a book,” “original and essential,” an example of “sheer mastery of poetic form,” containing “some of the most elegant poems in American literature since the loss of Anthony Hecht.” His third collection, Caligulan (2015), has been called “brutal yet beautiful,” defined by “pleasure, clarity, and discipline,” “tough-minded and precise,” filled with a “stern, witty, and often poignant music,” “a page-turner in a way most poetry books can never be,” and “an honest book for dishonest times.” Caligulan was selected as the winner of the 2017 Poets’ Prize. David Lehman was born in New York City in 1948. He was educated at Columbia University, spent two years in England as a Kellett Fellow at Cambridge University, and worked as Lionel Trilling's research assistant upon his return to New York. Lehman initiated The Best American Poetry series in 1988. He has received a Guggenheim Fellowship and an award in literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He is the author of several collections of poems, including Poems in the Manner Of (Scribner, forthcoming March, 2017); New and Selected Poems (Scribner, 2013); Yeshiva Boys (Scribner, 2009), When a Woman Loves a Man (Scribner, 2005); Jim and Dave Defeat the Masked Man, written collaboratively with James Cummins (Soft Skull Press, 2005); The Evening Sun: A Journal in Poetry (Scribner, 2002); The Daily Mirror: A Journal in Poetry (Scribner, 2000); Valentine Place (Scribner, 1996); Operation Memory (Princeton University Press, 1990); and An Alternative to Speech (Princeton University Press, 1986). Mary Jo Salter is the author of eight books of poetry, most recently The Surveyors. A frequent reviewer and essayist, she is also a lyricist whose song cycle “Rooms of Light,” with music by Fred Hersch, premiered at Lincoln Center in 2007. Her children’s book The Moon Comes Home appeared in 1989; her play Falling Bodiespremiered in 2004. She is also co-editor, with Margaret Ferguson and Jon Stallworthy, of The Norton Anthology of Poetry (4th edition, 1996; 5th edition, 2005). Adrienne Su was raised in Atlanta, Georgia, earned a BA from Radcliffe College of Harvard University and an MFA from the University of Virginia. She is the author of the poetry collections Middle Kingdom (1997), Sanctuary (2006), Having None of It (2009), and Living Quarters (2015). Her awards include a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship and residencies at the Fine Arts Works Center and The Frost Place. James Matthew Wilson is Associate Professor of Religion and Literature in the Department of Humanities and Augustinian Traditions at Villanova University. He has published eight books, including The Hanging God (Angelico), The Vision of the Soul: Truth, Goodness, and Beauty in the Western Tradition (CUA, 2017); the major critical study, The Fortunes of Poetry in an Age of Unmaking (Wiseblood, 2015); a collection of poems, Some Permanent Things; and a monograph, The Catholic Imagination in Modern American Poetry (both Wiseblood Books, 2014). Wilson is the Poetry Editor of Modern Age magazine and the series editor of Colosseum Books. In 2017, he received the Hiett Prize from the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. Ryan Wilson was born in Griffin, Georgia, and raised in nearby Macon, Georgia. He graduated from Tattnall Square Academy in 2000. He earned his Bachelor of Arts at The University of Georgia in 2004, his Master of Fine Arts from The Writing Seminars at The Johns Hopkins University in 2007, and a second Master’s degree from Boston University in 2008. Wilson’s poems, translations, and criticism appear widely, in periodicals such as First Things , Five Points, The Hopkins Review, The New Criterion, The Sewanee Review, and The Yale Review. Wilson’s first book of poems, The Stranger World, won the 2017 Donald Justice Poetry Prize.

“Pro

phet

ic O

utlo

ok”

by E

rnes

t Hilb

ert

Cro

oks r

un th

e w

hole

wor

ld, a

nd th

e D

ow ju

st fe

ll.

Cra

p ru

les t

he a

irwav

es. A

ll yo

ur b

est p

lans

stal

l. Th

e ai

r is d

irty,

and

you

don

’t fe

el w

ell.

You

r wife

won

’t lis

ten.

Frie

nds n

o lo

nger

cal

l. Sa

d so

ngs f

rom

you

th n

o lo

nger

cas

t a sp

ell.

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cer r

esea

rch

has r

un in

to a

wal

l. So

me

infla

ted

hack

just

won

the

Nob

el.

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witn

ess c

lear

sign

s of d

eclin

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d fa

ll.

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neig

hbor

s are

col

d, a

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our h

ouse

won

’t se

ll.

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r cat

has

bad

teet

h. Y

our p

aych

ecks

feel

smal

l. M

aybe

you

’re

real

ly si

ck. I

t’s h

ard

to te

ll.

Up

ahea

d, tr

affic

has

slow

ed to

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raw

l. Th

e w

orld

did

n’t j

ust s

tart

goin

g to

hel

l. Y

ou ju

st n

otic

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r the

firs

t tim

e, th

at’s

all.

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the

book

Six

ty S

onne

ts (2

009)

“Cov

er to

Cov

er”

by E

rnes

t Hilb

ert

Ever

y pa

ssio

n bo

rder

s on

the

chao

tic, b

ut th

e co

llect

or’s

pas

sion

bor

ders

on

the

chao

s of m

emor

ies.

– W

alte

r Ben

jam

in

I don

’t co

llect

them

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y ju

st a

ccum

ulat

e,

Tow

er h

ighe

r int

o sh

oddy

col

umns

, C

limbi

ng w

eird

ly li

ke c

ryst

al fo

rmat

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r pill

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al. T

he th

ough

t of t

heir

wei

ght

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shes

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ir co

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s I’v

e th

umbe

d Th

roug

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eir l

ong

sum

mer

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snow

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y w

eigh

tons

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ey sl

ide

onto

the

stov

e, u

nder

the

frid

ge,

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the

tub.

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y pr

op o

pen

win

dow

s,

Serv

e as

coa

ster

s. Th

ey h

ave

trave

led

with

me

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slep

t bes

ide

me.

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y fa

shio

n a

brid

ge

To v

anis

hed

room

s, so

rrow

s, an

d su

ns. L

ord

know

s W

hy I

haul

them

from

city

to c

ity.

I slip

them

toge

ther

like

bric

ks. T

hey

beco

me

a w

all,

My

gree

d, m

y fe

ars,

ever

ythi

ng, n

othi

ng a

t all.

From

the

book

All

of Y

ou o

n th

e G

ood

Eart

h (2

013)

“Bar

nega

t Lig

ht”

by E

rnes

t Hilb

ert

The

gull

pulls

bag

s fro

m tr

ash

and

drag

s the

m c

lear

. H

e’s b

ig a

s a c

at, a

blu

r of s

now

and

soot

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e po

kes u

ntil

debr

is sp

ills d

own

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pier

. H

e’s c

lum

sy, a

nd so

meh

ow h

e’s l

ost a

foot

.C

hew

ed o

ff? A

win

ter f

ishin

g lin

e? W

edge

d in

boa

rds?

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e st

ump’

s a sm

all s

harp

spea

r tha

t stin

gs th

e bi

rd

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roun

d is

touc

hed.

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soar

s to

fogg

y sc

ree,

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light

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flap

s to

halfw

ay h

ang

in a

ir, sp

urre

d B

y pa

in to

per

form

end

less

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uette

s. Th

e ba

y’sw

arm

surg

e tro

uble

s the

coo

ler s

ea.

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fishi

ng fl

eet r

etur

ns a

s silh

ouet

tes.

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urs a

re sm

all e

scap

es, r

eprie

ves,

rew

ards

, Su

mm

er th

e ce

nter

we

try to

pre

tend

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ill k

eep

us st

rong

, lik

e lo

ve, a

nd n

ever

end

.

From

the

book

Cal

igul

an (2

015)

Adr

ienn

eSu

Con

som

mé

wou

ld h

ave

rout

ed m

ein

the

spel

ling

bee

if th

e ot

her

kille

r spe

ller

in se

vent

h gr

ade

hadn

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d a

gren

ade

lobb

ed a

t him

, to

o. I’

ve fo

rgot

ten

his w

ord

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till f

eel

the

shift

ing

floor

of b

etra

yal

by th

is o

ne, w

hich

assu

med

fine

Fren

ch

rest

aura

nts o

r a m

othe

rw

ith th

e le

isur

e

to d

elve

into

Julia

Chi

ldor

a fa

ther

who

requ

ired

brot

h cl

ear e

noug

hto

read

thro

ugh,

neve

r min

d ho

w m

uch

flesh

beca

me

garb

age.

Who

am

ong

usw

as b

uild

ing

rafts

inst

ockp

ots o

ut o

f mea

t,eg

g w

hite

s, an

d le

eks

pure

ly fo

r tra

nspa

renc

y?W

hy w

ere

they

ask

ing

me?

In 1

979,

bro

th w

as c

anne

d.I w

as b

egin

ning

to u

nder

stan

d

why

stra

nger

s wer

e ta

king

to se

ain

cro

wde

d di

nghi

es.

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ing

dinn

er e

ach

nigh

t,go

od W

alte

r Cro

nkite

told

stor

ies o

f the

save

d,th

eir f

aces

far a

way

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near

, the

con

nect

ion

betw

een

my

Cam

pbel

l’s C

hick

en

Noo

dle

and

thei

r hun

ger

uncl

ear,

but a

cer

tain

dan

ger.

To w

aste

no

food

was

a g

iven

,w

hate

ver i

ts o

rigin

.

Rea

ding

was

per

mis

sibl

eev

enat

mid

nigh

t, ev

en a

t tab

le.

Thus

I co

uld

spel

l alm

ost a

nyth

ing

but n

ot a

wor

d of

hau

te c

uisi

ne.

Adr

ienn

eSu

Afte

r th

e D

inne

r Pa

rty

Dro

ppin

g na

pkin

s, co

rks,

and

non-

com

post

able

sin

to th

e tra

sh, I

see

that

frie

nds h

ave

mis

take

nm

y ev

eryd

ay c

hops

ticks

for d

ispo

sabl

es,

help

fully

dis

card

ing

them

alo

ngsi

de in

edib

les:

pork

bone

s, sh

rimp

shel

ls, b

itter

mel

on.

Am

ong

napk

ins a

nd c

orks

, the

y do

look

com

post

able

:

off-

whi

te, w

oode

n, w

arpe

d fr

om c

ontin

ual

was

hing

-no

lacq

uer,

no o

rnam

ent.

But

any

one

who

thin

ks th

ese

chop

stic

ks a

re d

ispo

sabl

e

does

n’t l

ive

with

cho

pstic

ks in

the

com

forta

ble

way

of a

favo

rite

robe

, ove

rsiz

ed, a

bit

brok

en.

Thin

pap

er n

apki

ns, p

last

ic fo

rks,

and

non-

com

post

able

take

out b

oxes

con

stitu

te th

e ch

opsti

ck’s

nat

ural

habi

tat,

to m

any

I hol

d de

ar. W

ith fa

mily

or a

lone

,I’l

l mai

ntai

n th

at c

hops

ticks

are

n’t d

ispo

sabl

e,

but i

f I c

an m

ake

peac

e w

ith th

e lo

ss o

f ute

nsils

whe

n br

eaki

ng b

aow

ith g

uests

, I’ll

be

one

of th

em,

not d

iggi

ng in

the

napk

ins a

nd c

orks

. Com

post

able

chop

stic

ks a

re th

e an

swer

: eve

ryda

y an

ddi

spos

able

.

Heo

rot

Nov

., 20

16

It

is cr

eepi

ng a

cros

s

the

with

ered

bac

kcou

ntry

. W

here

grim

fogs

gra

ze h

ills

and

gray

mist

s hau

nt

the

hollo

ws t

hat h

ug

our f

orsa

ken

high

way

s,

it lu

rche

s thr

ough

thick

ets,

do

wns

leav

es, d

owns

lim

bs.

It st

rips t

he b

ronz

e st

alks

of th

e ha

rves

t, it

stea

ls

the

first

ling

of th

e flo

ck

to g

ladde

n its

feed

ing.

In

a d

itch

by o

ur fe

nce

they

foun

d D

oc's

daug

hter

. Th

e ba

lefire

s bur

n.

Oth

ers a

re b

utch

ered

. G

rope

d by

our

grie

f,

in th

e gr

izzl

ed a

ir

we

have

shrie

ked

lamen

tatio

ns,

long

ing

for a

law

to

pun

ish th

e pr

edat

or

and

mak

e fir

m a

pea

ce.

All

the

high

cou

ncils

ha

ve c

onde

mne

d th

e cr

eatu

re,

and

still

it st

ands

as

tride

the

coun

ty,

crue

l as w

inte

r,

the

cold

’s ow

n ki

nsm

an.

The

nigh

tly n

ews

repe

ats i

ts n

othi

ng;

our F

aceb

ook

frien

ds

cry

wol

f, un

follo

w u

s.

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akes

its i

ron

sh

ackl

es in

the

shad

ows,

it ra

ttles

its w

renc

h

ov

er th

e ro

of g

ables

, in

the

dark

ness

out

side

our d

oors

, it d

ance

s, an

d w

ill n

ot w

ande

r

from

the

farm

s it h

as w

aste

d,

the

mon

stro

us c

hang

elin

g,

unch

osen

, our

chi

ld.

-

Ryan

Wils

on

For a

Dog

You

’d w

ake

us u

p—th

at sh

rill,

insis

tent

bar

k D

rivin

g aw

ay w

hate

ver d

ream

s had

fogg

ed

Our

visi

on—

and

we’d

rise

in th

e tru

e da

rk,

Won

derin

g ju

st w

hat e

xact

ly, c

atalo

gued

By

can

ine

inst

inct

und

er ‘T

HRE

AT,

’ was

ther

e,

Wha

t jog

ger,

cat,

or d

og it

was

that

dog

ged

You

from

you

r dro

wse

bes

ide

the

easy

cha

ir A

nd su

mm

oned

you

r yap

ped

pand

emon

ium

. N

ine

times

in te

n it

was

just

em

pty

air,

Som

e gh

oste

d sc

ent y

ou sn

iffed

. Dum

b—yo

u w

ere

dum

b,

Like

all

dogs

, snu

fflin

g up

to sn

akes

, afr

aid

Of m

ice.

Whe

n w

e sa

id ‘c

ome,’

you

wou

ldn’

t com

e;

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cap

ered

whe

n co

mm

ande

d to

play

dea

d,

And

whe

n w

e w

ante

d m

ost t

o be

alo

ne

You

’d o

ffer

up

that

imbe

cilic

hea

d U

ntil

we

crow

ned

your

pity

with

a b

one.

O

ur li

ves t

ook

on th

e sh

ape

you

spun

from

nee

d,

The

harr

ied ro

ndur

e of

rout

ine.

You

gon

e, Th

e ho

use

is qu

iete

r, an

d w

e’ve

been

free

d

Fore

ver f

rom

the

neve

r-end

ing

chor

es

You

r tail

ent

ailed

, the

scru

bbin

g w

here

you

pee

d,

The

hunt

ing

stain

-rem

over

s dow

n in

stor

es.

Wha

t’s h

arde

st a

re th

e pe

acef

ul h

ours

we

wan

ted

So m

uch

whe

n yo

u w

ere

scra

tchi

ng u

p th

e do

ors

And

how

ling

at so

me

phan

tom

thin

g th

at h

aunt

ed

The

wor

ld w

ithou

t, so

me

thre

at w

e co

uldn

’t se

e Th

at y

ou w

ere

desp

erat

e to

hav

e co

nfro

nted

. N

ow y

ou’re

par

t of t

hat p

rese

nt u

nity

O

f abs

ence

s the

livi

ng m

ove

amon

g,

In w

hich

wha

t was

, wha

t will

, and

wha

t can

’t be

D

ance

in a

ring

to a

triu

mph

ant s

ong

We

don’

t hav

e ea

rs to

hea

r, or

hea

rt to

see,

W

ho sl

eep

now

per

fect

ly, a

nd m

uch

too

long

.

-Ry

an W

ilson

1

TTHE

MIS

HAW

AKA

CRU

ISER

S

All w

iry a

nd c

aver

n-ch

este

d, v

oice

s O

f rub

ber b

ands

and

spok

es o

ff bi

cycle

s, Th

e bo

ys o

ut la

te o

n W

est M

cKin

ley A

ve.

Are

waiti

ng, t

alki

ng, s

earc

hing

thro

ugh

the

dark

.

Their

mid

nigh

t-blu

e m

esh

jerse

ys a

re th

e fie

lds

On

which

bla

nk lu

min

ous 1

5s a

ppea

r In

ans

wer t

o th

e str

okes

of p

assin

g he

adlig

hts.

A lin

e of

wee

kend

cru

isers

, muf

flers

loos

e

And

loud

with

bra

ggin

g, m

akes

its m

easu

red

circu

it Al

ong

thre

e bl

ocks

of n

eon

fast-

food

cha

ins,

The

dark

ened

pan

es o

f aut

o de

aler

ship

s, Th

e C

heck

s-Cas

hed,

and

the

boar

ded

Dol

lar S

tore

.

A hi

gh-p

erch

ed fl

oodl

ight

bat

hes i

n bl

indi

ng m

ilk

A fle

et o

f new

seda

ns a

nd m

iniv

ans

Beyo

nd th

e cy

clone

fenc

e. It

’s su

mm

er n

ow

And

light

live

s lea

ping

in c

onic

cloud

s of g

nats.

Thre

e bo

ys fo

llow

my

car a

s it g

ets t

rapp

ed

With

in th

e ca

rava

n, e

yes s

ettli

ng fo

r M

y m

ute

impa

tienc

e in

lieu

of t

he h

ope

Of s

pyin

g an

unk

nown

bat

ch o

f girl

s with

bee

r.

2

Their

bet

ters

par

k m

ud-sp

eckl

ed m

uscle

car

s An

d pe

rch

blun

t, ce

rtain

bod

ies o

n th

e ho

ods,

But t

hese

thre

e wa

it wi

th lo

ng le

gs, h

airle

ss, s

tretc

hing

, Po

ked

betw

een

high

-tops

and

fray

ed, c

utof

f den

im.

Abov

e, th

e sk

y gi

ves w

ay to

swee

ping

pla

ins

That

neit

her f

ield

nor p

arki

ng lo

t, no

r lig

hts

Stud

ded

alon

g th

e ro

w of

bur

ning

sign

s C

ould

pen

etra

te o

r pre

ttify

; the

sky

Is ju

st an

em

pty

clear

ing

for t

he h

eat,

And

thou

gh th

ese

boys

’ hea

rts p

ound

with

wan

t and

wea

knes

s, An

d th

ough

car

s fill

the

stree

t with

chr

ome

and

orde

r, I c

atch

the

vaca

nt b

ored

om ju

st be

neat

h.

Just

then

, a g

ap fo

rms a

s two

girl

s hop

out

Fr

om a

gre

en p

ickup

’s ca

b to

join

the

crow

d,

And

I esc

ape,

turn

righ

t off

the

mai

n dr

ag.

Their

eye

s pur

sue

my

fend

ers,

then

turn

bac

k

In se

arch

of s

omet

hing

wor

th th

e en

dles

s wai

ting.

I h

ave

a pl

ace

to g

o, so

meo

ne to

mee

t, Bu

t in

their

restl

ess s

till-b

ecom

ing

rests

M

y ow

n dr

ead

of th

e ba

re, t

he in

com

plet

e.

-Jam

es M

atth

ew W

ilson

80

Au

tu

mn

Ro

ad

I fo

llow

the

clea

n-ed

ged

mac

adam

nor

thTo

cat

ch th

e tr

ain,

the

map

les

hang

ing

fort

hO

n ei

ther

sid

e, th

eir

leav

es o

f bri

llian

t red

s,O

rang

es, a

nd u

mbe

rs th

at w

ill m

ake

thei

r be

dsSo

on in

the

unm

own

gras

s th

at li

nes

my

stre

et,

And

cru

mbl

e at

the

wei

ght o

f pas

sing

feet

.T

he p

eopl

e w

ho ju

st m

oved

in th

ree

door

s do

wn

Hav

e ri

nged

thei

r ba

nist

ers

in b

lack

and

bro

wn

And

hun

g a

skel

etal

chi

ld fr

om a

sw

ing,

Its

eyel

ess

star

e a

dark

and

men

acin

gR

emin

der

to p

ray

for

the

dead

and

of t

hose

Hor

rors

the

com

ing

dark

ness

may

dis

clos

e.W

e ha

ven’

t met

the

tena

nts

yet,

and

don’

tW

ant t

o. A

gla

nce

into

thei

r ya

rd h

as s

own

Nig

htm

ares

alr

eady

in m

y ch

ildre

n’s

slee

p,Sh

akin

g th

em te

ared

and

scr

eam

ing

from

its

deep

.W

e’ve

hear

d th

em c

rush

thei

r be

er c

ans,

out

to s

mok

eLa

te a

t nig

ht, a

nd g

uffa

w a

t som

e cr

ude

joke

.A

few

doo

rs fa

rthe

r on

, the

law

n is

spi

ked

Wit

h si

gns

for

cand

idat

es I

’ve

long

dis

liked

.Ju

st s

eein

g th

eir

nam

es in

duce

s in

me

fear

Less

sup

erna

tura

l but

muc

h m

ore

near

At h

and

than

thos

e th

at h

aunt

the

child

ren’

s dr

eam

s.B

ut th

en, I

see

that

sto

ne fo

unda

tion

s, b

eam

sO

f sm

ooth

pin

e pi

tche

d hi

gh in

the

sun,

whe

re tw

oH

omes

now

are

ris

ing,

pro

mis

e so

met

hing

new

;A

nd h

ear

St. M

onic

a’s b

ell i

n he

r to

wer

Gov

ern

our

hills

ide

as it

tolls

the

hour

,C

hast

enin

g us

that

thou

gh o

ur ti

me

seem

s di

re,

Muc

h ha

s en

dure

d th

roug

h be

atin

g ra

ins

and

fire,

And

goo

d ca

n st

ill b

e m

ade

in th

is d

ark

seas

on.

I re

ad a

boo

k la

st w

eek

that

say

s ou

r re

ason

No

long

er s

ees

the

wor

ld a

s fr

om G

od’s

eyes

;W

here

the

anci

ent m

ind

saw

sig

ns, o

urs

now

den

ies

To it

all

but t

he m

ost m

ater

ial m

eani

ng.

I’m n

ot s

o su

re. I

t see

ms

that

thou

ghts

are

lean

ing

Up

agai

nst e

very

fenc

e po

st, a

nd th

e ea

rth,

Star

ed a

t, st

ares

bac

k an

d qu

ietly

bri

ngs

to b

irth

Bet

wee

n us

mor

als,

wor

ds, a

nd p

rom

ises

81

Whi

ch w

e m

ight

ove

rloo

k bu

t can

’t di

smis

s.I

wor

ry, a

s a

fath

er, t

hat t

he y

ear

Ahe

ad w

ill b

ear

out o

men

s al

l too

cle

arSu

ch th

at m

y ch

ildre

n, g

row

n, w

ill o

nly

know

The

cla

sh o

f goo

d an

d ev

il’s

fiery

glo

w.

I st

op to

let t

he s

peed

ing

traf

fic p

ass.

The

gut

ter’s

tile

d w

ith

tins

and

bro

ken

glas

s.A

cros

s th

e w

ay, t

he V

eter

an’s

Mem

oria

lW

ith

polis

hed

gran

ite,

sti

rrin

g fla

gs, a

nd a

ureo

leO

f silv

er g

uard

s th

e en

tran

ce to

the

stat

ion.

Its

plaq

ue s

ays,

The

se g

ave

thei

r liv

es fo

r ou

r na

tion.

I w

ait,

clut

chin

g m

y ti

cket

in m

y ha

nd,

For

wha

t the

rou

gh v

oice

d fu

ture

will

dem

and.

-Jam

es M

atth

ew W

ilson