Some Other Just Ones

The printer who sets this page with skill, though he may not admire it. singers of solo expertise who defer and find harmonies instead. Anyone whose skeleton is susceptible to …

Illustration by Thomas Libetti

The printer who sets this page with skill, though he may not admire it.
singers of solo expertise who defer and find harmonies instead.

Anyone whose skeleton is susceptible to music.

She who, having loved a book or record, instantly passes it on.

Whose heart lilts at a span of vacant highway, the fervent surge of
acceleration, psalm of the tires.

Adults content to let children bury them in sand or leaves.

Those for whom sustaining hatred is a difficulty.

Surprised by tenderness on meeting, at a reunion,
the persecutors of their youth.

Likely to forget debts owed them but never a debt they owe.

Apt to read Plutarch or Thich Nhat Hanh with the urgency of one
reading the morning news.

Frightened ones who fight to keep fear from keeping them from life.

The barber who, no matter how long the line, will not rush the masterful
shave or cut.

The small-scale makers of precious obscurios—pomegranate spoons,
conductors’ batons, harpsichord tuning hammers,
War of 1812 re-enactors’ ramrods, hand-cranks for hurdy-gurdies

The gradeschool that renewed the brownfields back of the A&P
and made them ample miraculous May and June.

The streetgang that casts no comment as they thin out to let Bob
the barking man squawk past them on the sidewalk.

The two African medical students in Belgrade, 1983, who seeing
a traveller lost and broke took him in and fed him rice and beans
cooked over a camp stove in their cubicle of a room and let him
sleep there while one of them studied all night at the desk between
the beds with the lamp swung low.

Those who sit on front porches, not in fenced privacy, in the erotic
inaugural summer night steam.

Who redeem from neglect a gorgeous, long-orphaned word.

Who treat dogs with a sincere and comical diplomacy.

Attempt to craft a decent wine in a desperate climate.

Clip the chain of consequence by letting others have the last word.

Master the banjo.

Are operatically loud in love.

These people, without knowing it, are saving the world.

Steven Heighton
Steven Heighton's most recent book is Reaching Mithymna: Among the Volunteers and Refugees on Lesvos, which was a finalist for the Hilary Weston Prize, and Selected Poems 1983-2020.

Like What You’re Reading?

Fact-based journalism is our passion and your right.

We’re asking readers like you to support The Walrus so we can continue to lead the Canadian conversation.

With COVID-19, now more than ever The Walrus’ journalism, fact checking, and online events play a critical role in informing and connecting people. From public health to education to the economy, this pandemic presents an opportunity to change things for the better.

We feature Canadian voices and expertise on stories that travel beyond our shores, and we firmly believe that this reporting can change the world around us. The Walrus covers it all with originality, depth, and thoughtfulness, bringing diverse perspectives to bear on essential conversations while setting the highest bar for fact-checking and rigour.

None of this would be possible without you.

As a nonprofit, we work hard to keep our costs low and our team lean, but this is a model that requires individual support to pay our contributors fairly and maintain the strength of our independent coverage.
Donations of $20 or more will receive a charitable tax receipt.
Every contribution makes a difference.
Support The Walrus today. Thank you.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *