New job started today; the war’s almost over; taxes done; car failed inspection. Now what? An old poem, slightly revised, that fits my mood:
Waking Up to What?
There’s no cock crowing -- no one fed
The flock this year. They’ve flown the coop,
Which I can’t find. I’d stay in bed,
Except my mind’s a boiling soup --
Stone soup. Some soldier made that,
Right? Who stoops to conquer -- See?
A stew! For God’s sake find my hat!
I can?t chew the stones the infantry
Grinds beneath its blistered feet,
A black wreath on every door,
Trumpets blaring out defeat
Of sleep. I’m staring at the floor --
Look up! Look up! There’s the sun.
I’m cooking stones but there’s the sun.
