A man in a white coat turns from his work.
He whines like a bitch in heat for one moment.
Then he shoulders himself up: drying up, settling back in.
There are millions of children who may live now
because of this moment. Maybe not, of course;
it depends on how this goes. It depends perhaps
on him, perhaps on serendipity. No one can be sure.

A man in a ratty T-shirt turns from his work.
He closes his wrecked eyes and doesn’t think of his work.
Then he looks again at the page and thinks he sees it —
himself, a friend, a monster, a concept on foot
dragging its steps; no matter, he goes where it goes.
He can be abstract too. Far and away easier for him,
and millions of readers — ha! They will follow or not.

This day closes for each with one same small prayer:
this day has no moral foundation, or it does;
this day has no formal catechism, or it does.
What a man may do or not is up to his whims
and his alone, or else he is chosen for it; no matter.
There ought to be a determinant, but there isn’t.
He is a scientist, he is a poet. Let him be

and get out of the way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T