Willie MetcalfI was Willie Metcalf.They used to call me “Doctor Meyers,”Because, they said, I looked like him.And he was my father, according to Jack McGuire.I lived in the livery stable,Sleeping on the floorSide by side with Roger Baughman’s bulldog,Or sometimes in a stall.I could crawl between the legs of the wildest horsesWithout getting kicked—we knew each other.On spring days I tramped through the countryTo get the feeling, which I sometimes lost,That I was not a separate thing from the earth.I used to lose myself, as if in sleep,By lying with eyes half-open in the woods.Sometimes I talked with animals—even toads and snakes—Anything that had an eye to look into.Once I saw a stone in the sunshineTrying to turn into jelly.In April days in this cemeteryThe dead people gathered all about me,And grew still, like a congregation in silent prayer.I never knew whether I was a part of the earthWith flowers growing in me, or whether I walked—Now I know.
I was Willie Metcalf.They used to call me “Doctor Meyers,”Because, they said, I looked like him.And he was my father, according to Jack McGuire.I lived in the livery stable,Sleeping on the floorSide by side with Roger Baughman’s bulldog,Or sometimes in a stall.I could crawl between the legs of the wildest horsesWithout getting kicked—we knew each other.On spring days I tramped through the countryTo get the feeling, which I sometimes lost,That I was not a separate thing from the earth.I used to lose myself, as if in sleep,By lying with eyes half-open in the woods.Sometimes I talked with animals—even toads and snakes—Anything that had an eye to look into.Once I saw a stone in the sunshineTrying to turn into jelly.In April days in this cemeteryThe dead people gathered all about me,And grew still, like a congregation in silent prayer.I never knew whether I was a part of the earthWith flowers growing in me, or whether I walked—Now I know.