A dry, sunny Sunday in June
and he is consumed by the purpose
of adding something to the human theme,
a story, an anecdote
on the spinning wheel of incomprehension,
to make some sense
of the chaos and corruption
that rise and fall with the years of man.
The slight breeze
that tickles the chimes
to a chorus of chords
opens no secret passage
to the tomb of immortality,
yet the blades of the ceiling fan
which augment the gentle wind
blur like the hastening hands
of a clock constantly shoving him
toward the empty hole.
He wipes his brow
and catches the waning aroma of lilacs,
sweet now that they’re heads
will soon shrivel,
but it does not inspire insight
upon the cyclical revival of nature
following the winter onslaught
nor the frustration which accompanies
the seeping verse of block.
The important subjects elude him
save for his personal ascent from youth
into independent maturity
then the unexpected plunge toward decline,
a subject for which
only his sensations govern,
his hope for an eternal quip
brimming with a desire for acknowledgement,
greeted with more than nonchalance
and indifferent regard.
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