The Poetry of
Jack Scott

Different Soil

Somehow surviving
the outer vacuum
I arrive bravely
in this new world.

The city,
clothing not quite fitting:
loose around the body,
tight around the mind.

A world of smoke and fumes,
of threats and garbage,
anger unexploded,
hatred loose as hurled gravel

upon each littered path.
The house a closet,
yet a safer fit
than the space outside.

The hall and steps
are my home
while I’m smoking
and thinking smoky thoughts.

Livable and cluttered
after suburbs’ empty space,
where flowers grew
and people wilted.

Home away from home again,
in this urban garden
I‘ll grow different things
in different soil.


351 ®Copyright 1974 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.