Rita Dove


"Teach Us To Number Our Days&Quot; - Poem by Rita Dove

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.


Comments about "Teach Us To Number Our Days&Quot; by Rita Dove

  • Rookie - 45 Points Colleen Courtney (5/15/2014 6:40:00 AM)

    An interesting poem. Invokes thoughts of how others lives are lived. (Report) Reply

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Gold Star - 12,005 Points Lyn Paul (10/11/2013 9:33:00 AM)

    We should number our days yet must not live in fear. Thank you Rita (Report) Reply

Read all 2 comments »



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Poem Submitted: Friday, October 11, 2013

Poem Edited: Friday, October 11, 2013


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