NOTHING TO SHOW
The swing shade has set the shift, and all around me
are things in pain. I have nothing to show but sore
shoulders from carrying this load. The skylark has
left the happiness shed. The bluebird is dead in the
street. I look up, at the train station, and all I see are
God-Awful wall paintings by high-school art-project
students : disgusting references memorializing every
past war this nation had fought. And what do they know,
these little, rank, snot-nosed, bastard-assed electronic
kids with the attention level of a Dodo bird extinct?
And why should I listen? Near them, even the old
gravestone guy keeps a stupid store. This used to
be Klein's Garden Shop, 55 years ago; a garden
store and a nursery, trucks coming in and out.
Across the street, the granary building is now
a bar, and the old city hall has been long removed
and replaced by some police-state brutality of
monstrous and poor proportions. For what do
we live, and why do we pretend to fight
for anything left at all?
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