Aram Saroyan

Big city boys come out

to the country, toy with

the idea
of becoming farmers, forgetting

their nervous systems for a while,
it almost seems east (why

write poetry about dock strikes?) -
their wives cooperate with

nature so well, or seem to know
their own rhythm better

than men, creatures of crude habit
perhaps, an Orange Julius might hit

the spot
right now - they think, circling and

circling the precise matter of their own
home, and children come into this

as quickly as they find themselves
a place in it, meanwhile the planet spins

and keeps time perfectly with the Universe
like a guitar solo by Eric

Clapton (Derek & The Dominoes) it all
seems to fit, nothing impressionably wrong

or jarringly accurate, even - that too
becoming useless as we go on in this life,

soon to hit thirty, soon to hit twenty-nine,
and getting better and better all the time.

- For Tom Clark, pg. 22-23