The Library of Congress

 
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Poem Number 82

This is a poem about pleasure and mortality. It ends in a little prayer.

Small Comfort

Katha Pollitt

Coffee and cigarettes in a clean cafe,
forsythia lit like a damp match against
a thundery sky drunk on its own ozone,

the laundry cool and crisp and folded away
again in the lavender closet-too late to find
comfort enough in such small daily moments

of beauty, renewal, calm, too late to imagine
people would rather be happy than suffering
and inflicting suffering. We're near the end,

but O before the end, as the sparrows wing
each night to their secret nests in the elm's green dome
O let the last bus bring

love to lover, let the starveling
dog turn the corner and lope suddenly
miraculously, down its own street, home.

 

from The New Yorker

Copyright by Katha Pollitt.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced with permission (click for permissions information).