In memoriam R.P.W.

Una poesia di James A. Potato. Mi ha chiesto di non tradurla, per non evidenziare la sua poca esperienza. Non so se manterrò la promessa.

✻ ✻ ✻

you consider a second
Robert Pershing Wadlow

who towered over the first four letters of Illinois
one on top of the other
and had a bed that spanned a whole week-end
Friday to Monday

his feet were weak
like that statue in Nebuchadnezzar’s dream
but you bet he was kind and gentle
and though the Guinness book is shy about it
you’d easily picture him
on the very first pew
crooked like a cricket to pay his due

he brought about no thinner thoughts and wishes
up above ours in thinner air
and smiled to the photographers
because everyone’s got their jobs

probably he was bound to save in time
what he’d wasted in height
and he died twenty-two
(the doctors said) still busy with growing

he merely left is right shoe
to mr Snyder in Manatee
void as a question

and you’d believe he never knew
why God had sent him here
to be the tallest one
and nothing else

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