Next Day

　　by Randall Jarrell

　　 Moving from Cheer to Joy， from Joy to All，

　　 I take a box

　　 And add it to my wild rice， my Cornish game hens.

　　 The slacked or shorted， basketed， identical

　　 Food-gathering flocks

　　 Are selves I overlook. Wisdom， said William James，

　　 Is learning what to overlook. And I am wise

　　 If that is wisdom.

　　 Yet somehow， as I buy All from these shelves

　　 And the boy takes it to my station wagon，

　　 What I've become

　　 Troubles me even if I shut my eyes.

　　 When I was young and miserable and pretty

　　 And poor， I'd wish

　　 What all girls wish： to have a husband，

　　 A house and children. Now that I'm old， my wish

　　 Is womanish：

　　 That the boy putting groceries in my car

　　 See me. It bewilders me he doesn't see me.

　　 For so many years

　　 I was good enough to eat： the world looked at me

　　 And its mouth watered. How often they have undressed me，

　　 The eyes of strangers！

　　 And， holding their flesh within my flesh， their vile

　　 Imaginings within my imagining，

　　 I too have taken

　　 The chance of life. Now the boy pats my dog

　　 And we start home. Now I am good.

　　 The last mistaken，

　　 Ecstatic， accidental bliss， the blind

　　 Happiness that， bursting， leaves upon the palm

　　 Some soap and water--

　　 It was so long ago， back in some Gay

　　 Twenties， Nineties， I don't know . . . Today I miss

　　 My lovely daughter

　　 Away at school， my sons away at school，

　　 My husband away at work--I wish for them.

　　 The dog， the maid，

　　 And I go through the sure unvarying days

　　 At home in them. As I look at my life，

　　 I am afraid

　　 Only that it will change， as I am changing：

　　 I am afraid， this morning， of my face.

　　 It looks at me

　　 From the rear-view mirror， with the eyes I hate，

　　 The smile I hate. Its plain， lined look

　　 Of gray discovery

　　 Repeats to me： "You're old." That's all， I'm old.

　　 And yet I'm afraid， as I was at the funeral

　　 I went to yesterday.

　　 My friend's cold made-up face， granite among its flowers，

　　 Her undressed， operated-on， dressed body

　　 Were my face and body.

　　 As I think of her I hear her telling me

　　 How young I seem； I am exceptional；

　　 I think of all I have.

　　 But really no one is exceptional，

　　 No one has anything， I'm anybody，

　　 I stand beside my grave

　　 Confused with my life， that is commonplace