Days When Nothing Happens
"I value David Tucker's poems for their concentration on the mysteries of the vivid: the unfathomable mysteries that flare from the ordinary, what he calls 'the judder and stutter of events.' His seismograph tracks the newsroom's trembling for event, charting the peaks and valleys of our general human need for sensation or knowledge. He writes about that need clearly, cleanly, with a reporter's respect for information and a poet's awareness of the undisclosed. This brief selection is a pleasurable, memorable read. It leaves me wanting more."
ŚRobert Pinsky

And This Just In

Those footfalls on the stairs when the night shift went home,
the sunlight fanning through the dinosaur's rib cage,
the janitor's sneezeŚwe're asking questions,
we'd like to know more.

The moth in the clock tower at City Hall,
the 200th generation to sleep thereŚwe may banner the story
across Page One. And in Metro, we're leading
with the yawn that traveled city council chambers
this morning then slipped into the streets
and wound through the city. The editorial page
will decry the unaccountable boredom
that overtook everyone around three in the afternoon.
In Features we catch up with the young priest
as he climbs the long steps to his church,
his arms full of groceries.

A watchman humming in the parking lot
at Broad and MarketŚwe have thatŚ
with a sidebar on the bronze glass
of a whiskey bottle cracking into cheap jewels
under his boots. A boy walking across the ball field
an hour after the gameŚwe're covering that silence.
We have reporters working hard, we're getting
to the bottom of all of it.


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