Pages

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Not About Me

This hapless animal, ill-shaven, weary,
Gets out of bed at quarter after two:
Life gathers dust. So dull. So ordinary.

Dressed in pajamas, spirits less than cheery,
He looks for something, anything, to do:
This hapless animal, ill-shaven, weary,

This grumbling lug, mind blurred and eyesight bleary,
Implores the fates to fashion him anew
But must endure the plain, the ordinary.

His days all seem so mercilessly dreary:
No seraph, wings aflame, shall swoop down to
Surprise this animal, ill-shaven, weary.

No lissome nymph, no ghost benign or scary,
Will charge into his world out of the blue
To alchemize his nights -- so ordinary!

He sighs and groans, too numbed for joy or fury.
Once, he could love and laugh and dream and do.
This hapless animal, ill-shaven, weary,
Disdains the grace of what is ordinary.

A Young Woman of Boston

Elegant as pi to the hundredth decimal, beautiful as a quadratic equation, close as Cambodia, distant as winter, precise and mathematica...