University of Northern Iowa

Out of Work, out of Touch, out of Sorts, Dupont Circle, Washington, D. C. (Summer 1962)Author(s): Catherine DavisSource: The North American Review, Vol. 249, No. 2 (Summer, 1964), p. 24Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25115957 .

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Out of Work, Out of Touch, Out of Sorts

Dupont Circle, Washington, D. C.

(Summer 1962)

Already past mid-June, And something should be done; I sit all afternoon, Feeling both out of touch And out of sorts, and sun

Myself on a bench near The fountain; there's not much

On a temporary basis

That I know how to do. What will my coming here,

Summer spent, amount to?

One of my wild-goose chases?

Carved on the fountain's base Are the bare name and dates

Of the man whom this place, A wreath of water, leaf, And stone, commemorates;

Wind, Ocean, Stars as three

Figures in high relief Circle the shaft. The hand That undertook this story For the passersby and me

Lost it in allegory ?

The thing is much too grand.

The passersby pass by.

They look instead at me Or those they meet, as I

At them; the admiral Himself would no doubt be

Surprised were he to pass His lost memorial.

I The mere water striking The bowl's edges, the trim Bushes, young leaves and grass,

Which also might please him, Is much more to our liking.

All winter long this scene ?

The walks, spokes of a wheel, The civil white and green Of everyday concerns, The circle like a reel On which the gigantic thread Of traffic sings and turns, The staid fountain's commotion ?

Turned in my mind and brought, For every move that led

Forward, a quicker thought In steady countermotion.

Images of the past Simplify as they grow Centrifugal and vast: The days all run together; The long, eccentric snow Of being somewhere else Falls through perfect weather; Starlings once seen flying

?

Paired wings, wing upon wing, With the wild, irregular pulse Of love in late-found spring

?

Circle together, crying.

Nothing is quite like that ?

This city, least of all; I think of the times I've sat In the shadow of events

Faceless, impersonal. What stone colossus' hands

Altered the private sense Of how much one can master?

That others also grope

Shapes what one understands,

Facing the downward slope Of a decade's near-disaster.

I almost learned for once

To take things as they come; So now the eye confronts,

Not the past spun beyond Itself, but the humdrum

Comings and goings of such As momently respond

Only to what is living, Momently changed within.

I sense, almost in touch, But minding what has been, The present's gift of giving.

Catherine Davis

24 The North American Review

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