Which Is to Say

A draft.

Every morning the same boring innovation.
I do not recognize this dispensation,
Nor does it (let's be frank) me.

I was lying.
I came into this age a lost crying child
And grew to love it
Because it called me grandson
And gave me a home
With crayons and a desk
And knew I would one day be interesting.

But now my garden does not have a gate,
Nor my house a portico.
Strangers climb in through the windows
And out through the gopher holes,
Leaving no forwarding address.

Every road (you may have heard)
Goes to the same place
Because they all (after all)
Lead Somewhere. This is clever.

But I have been clever too:
My God, that's a long way down.

| Posted by Wilson at 15:59 Central | TrackBack
| Report submitted to the Humanities Desk