The Late Mr. Thorpe

ONE morning, though the station clock said
eight,
A Mr. Thorpe of Westerville, a man
Who lived in mortal fear of being late,
Defied his curse in sleep — some people
can.
His wife, a Mrs. Thorpe, grew more and
more
Ungentle as she called him; on his eyes
The sun began to shine; eight-twenty-four,
The station clock said now. He must arise.

He rose; he shaved and dressed; meanwhile
his wife
Relayed his breakfast like a juggler drilled
For years with cup and spoon, with plate
and knife.
Then Mr. Thorpe, a sprinter iron-willed,
Fled down the street as for his very life,
But, falling as he caught his train, was
killed.

The station clock said just eight-fifty-two
When, from the crowd around the iron post
Where he had fallen, stepped, as good as
new,
Not Mr. Thorpe, but his delighted ghost.
He pulled his coat down, brushed a dusty
knee,
And dropped his ghostly brief case on a
bench.
‘I’ll take my time,’ he chuckled. ‘Free!
I’m free!’
Fantastic thoughts of Cuban girls, and
French,

Flashed in his mind, and bloomed like
jungle flowers;
Life in the Balkan style, or Philippine;
Moonlight on Arab tents, or English towers.
No trains for ghosts. No clocks to mar the
scene.
No clocks to measure daylight into hours.
But when it came, he caught the ninefifteen.