The Poetry of
Jack Scott


I watch you across the pond.
It’s premature to speak.
You do not see me;
I’m not in your book.

I skip a stone across our pond
far short of striking you,
courting your attention
and what might come of that.

Its ripples kiss concentrically,
lapping at your lolling toes
on your separate shore,
but you don’t look up.

Toothless circles porpoise,
wavelets nipping wider
without taking bites;
these are not sharks.

I toss the next one closer.
You glance toward its sound
and turn another page
curiosity contained.

I grow more zealous
and think to try more skill.
This best caress of stone’s finesse
though closer, doesn’t splash you.

I throw another stone
missing water, hitting you.
Now, having your attention,
I don’t know what to do with it.


606 ®Copyright 1974 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.