The worst part was the secretary whispering
in the doorway and my professor telling me
in the middle of tutorial to call home.
Depressed, fifty, she had done it again:
swallowed everything and wandered off
into a field with a pillow. Someone noticed
and called the police. The pillow I understood—
go out with a little comfort—but it still seemed
so unfair: not her field and not the play I needed
for exams. All the way home on the bus I felt banal.
Midnight, my step-father whispers, they’ll know
after midnight. His practicality I understood—
me thinking Benedick …get thee a wife…
and him saying go out, see a movie.
The Great Escape, again. This time hoping
they would all get out, this time
he would clear the wire into Switzerland,
this time they wouldn’t shoot the fifty
Much Ado About Nothing poem by Peter Taylor
March 12, 2012
