Poking At Trash

Feeling downright ill,
think of filthy war, filthier
corruption, filthiest
venality and stupidity;

then I look outside
at my neighbor’s house
and at them poking
at a bag of trash on the curb.

Geese honk overhead.
I wish I could say I’d learned
the song I tried to learn this morning
but it eluded me.

It is almost daybreak
and none of my truth
scares the venal, the stupid,
least of all the Orange Bastard.

But I can dream of it —
useless though I am;
I am useless indeed — still
I imagine them coming around

to wage delighted war.
The geese fly on. The neighbors go inside;
the trash at the curb is all theirs
for the leaving.

I’m awake, ashamed
at my own settled state
and wondering what I should do
next in this American morning;

should I howl, should I blow
on a fife, should I fall wounded
in battle, should I die? Ashamed,
I tell you. Believe me

when I say there was a time
when I was not so diminished.
Hard to recall it now, but it was true.
Now, I am trash myself. Nothing

but a wasted chance.

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