Archive > Vol. 21 no. 1

Baron Wormser

Herman Melville (1884)

Once, he worked on a ship, felt the heave
   of the sea, the wind in the sails.
Officially, he still worked — in a room in a building
   in a city. An office.
Earning a living, holding a job, making a wage.
Once, he’d met others — unapologetic, exotic.
Their faraway islands.

Men’s voices each day — hale, bluff, hearty.
Columns in the newspaper, the people like columns,
The windows in an office looking out at more buildings,
The people in their clothes, the women’s elaborate dresses,
Their voices light but not tender.
Their flesh filled with reproof.
How did the world go so wrong?
Hawthorne had the sense to die.

Voices with questions and answers. Dust. Papers to sign.
Staircases. Discussions. Railings.
Once, once, once, once.
The days trickling through his thick fingers.
The wind he felt sometimes on the street.