The Poetry of
Jack Scott

Stunted Ones

Stunted Ones,
sailing on the swings,
digging in the sand
for sand,
one another’s hand,
so far away from sea.

White cane’s red tip,
undifferentiated black,
to him
who cannot see that he is blind.

The smells are new
but you won’t know
until your youthful keeper
calls you back.

No scythe,
no skull on him.
He’s young.
He’s safe.
Born safe.

Slim reaper.

Dear ones,
you do not know you follow life.

He does not know he leads it.


502(L52) ®Copyright 1973 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.