ONCE AGAIN
That stupid bedtime monk comes
walking by; once again I see his
shrouded face. He's holding his
book of prayers, and muttering.
I want to say to him 'My friends
are in hospitals, dying. What
good are you to me?'
-
The leaves on the lobby tree are
drooping, and fallen ones now
litter the floor. A few people sit
around, morosely. Doing nothing
at all. I want to cry out, something,
mean perhaps, like 'What are you
all here for?'
-
But I have a better nature than that,
I suppose, an can bring myself to
say nothing at all, once more.
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