SOMETIMES
Sometimes I like to think I'll
do whatever I want. And then
I see even the sky has limits.
Some Braniff plane or something
painted yellow comes low down
across the sky, scuttling from
Newark, or coming in from an
Atlantic post. What's the use,
think I. Saskatoon, Calgary,
Victoria? Or London, or France?
Not a chance for me; such fine
trepidation runs across the land.
I'd probably get some Indonesian
laborer working on my plane.
Anyway, 'And we will all go
down together.' Like that song
about Vietnam had it.
-
Funny how things disappear.
Casper the Friendly Ghost would
have it no different yet he means
nothing now. Irreducible effects?
A cold spot at the top of the stairs?
Are spirits ghosts, or are ghosts just
that? And we'll all go down together.
Like back in another life, when I
was probably, really, a saint.
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