Saul Bennett
11
Even in deep
Indian summer all wore hats.
Always before the end out
they stooped a rank at a time
to waiting buses.
Not a face dead
across could be read
close up. Once someone grabbed
a freshman's spyglass, the nearer
to observe for the science of the occasion
a clicked pass or
first down
rush.
None stood, or cheered.
None appeared
to move.
All knew then why
that Word for those
brought, beneath ticking-toward-Thanksgiving
dour squat suns in coal country gone sour, for an hour
frozen in retreat from Athens
State Hospital,
insane.