You know, sometimes, poetry just doesn’t work.
Well, such as here, for example.
Every day is arbitrary in its whims and fancies.
You might as easily win the lottery on a Wednesday
as be flattened by a truck, y’know?
But for poetry’s sake, who gives a flying fuck?
Unless you believe in providence, or divine intervention.
Then, maybe, you do. Give, I mean, you know.
A note of tema con variazanioni here: many people,
maybe not your friends or your family,
or even the general populace as you imagine them,
would not even know the difference between a powerball in the hand
or a Kenworth up the ass.
Think of, maybe, smaller countries.
Not so, perhaps, developed as ours.
Doesn’t that make you sad to know?
It does me.
Of course, I wrote it and I didn’t have to.
I could have kept my mouth shut, as it were,
known it still, but not shared it with you,
and I would have been sad, still, to know it, alone.
But, it’s already sad so why be alone, too?
This is better: you and I, knowing,
being sad, but doing it together.
Boy, the ducks are pissed today at something in the pond.
I should feed them more bread.
© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved
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