Poems by Tim Suermondt

DUBLIN

The foundling hospital closed for decades.
A poem to honor the lost children lies
bronzed under a tree in the nearby park—
paradise quietly refusing to be broken.
No, no luscious day in spring capable
of repairing every wound, a small salve
like a small star will have to do. A shortcut
for me now on my way to meeting friends
at a pub—late as usual, but always forgiven.

HONG KONG

We walk down the long alley,
holding hands and talking
the sweet chat of romance.

The mops propped against
the walls on both sides
seem to stand at attention

for us, a silent honor guard
and soon we'll be bathed
by the sunrays on the main

street too, the double-decker
buses going by like worlds,
this one where lovers cannot die.