News at Eleven: This poem has his [Charles Simic's]

characteristic ingredients, and they are as fresh as ever: Something rare and beautiful that's missing, a chance comic encounter that feels vaguely aggressive and deceptive ("She could be making it all up"), and in which, despite its apparent slightness, the poet finds himself entangled forever.

And why, years later, do you still,
Off and on, cast your eyes to the ground
As you hurry to some appointment
Where you are now certain to arrive late?

from The New York Times: 'One or Two Murderers in Any Crowd'

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