"Teach Us to Number Our Days"
In the old neighborhood, each funeral parlor
is more elaborate than the last.
The alleys smell of cops, pistols bumping their thighs,
each chamber steeled with a slim blue bullet.
Low-rent balconies stacked to the sky.
A boy plays tic-tac-toe on a moon
crossed by TV antennae, dreams
he has swallowed a blue bean.
It takes root in his gut, sprouts
and twines upward, the vines curling
around the sockets and locking them shut.
And this sky, knotting like a dark tie?
The patroller, disinterested, holds all the beans.
Rita Dove's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem ("Teach Us to Number Our Days" by Rita Dove )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- The Peace of Trees, Sandra Feldman
- and back to the middle of the road lies .., RIC S. BASTASA
- aut neca aut necare, RIC S. BASTASA
- Not a Poem at all, sEaN nOrTh
- to be empty all over again and move like.., RIC S. BASTASA
- and once again you decide to live., RIC S. BASTASA
- 'tonight at ten'., RIC S. BASTASA
- you must be lucky to have found it, RIC S. BASTASA
- love became l o v e became LOVE and now .., Mandolyn ...
- that self-confidence, RIC S. BASTASA