Despair

What is it that takes 
So long to appear before you 
When you’re down, down, down? 
You spend forever waiting 
For some sign of it 
Before you're goners
When the herald’s already 
Winging it to the next town. 

Verdict

cut-and-dried 

white- 

washed 

walls 


no 

shadow 

of 

doubt 

crossing 


blank 

page 

leaving 

no 


room 

for 

deliberation 

As Good As It Gets

So sick of hearing 
Of the death 
Of this unacknowledged 
Legislator of the world 
And of that, I cannot 

But think in these mean times 
How many have come before 
And how many are yet to come 
And how many after that— 
A distressing, unceasing line 

Of well-meaning poets 
Dead or alive or yet to be 
Strung out and scrawling across 
An indifferent, chaotic universe— 
It doesn’t get much better than that. 

In Praise of Ephemera

There are only so many things 
Indolent ones can do in a day— 
If they take their sweet time 
And knock them off one at a time, 
They may last a lifetime. 

Injunction

When you have at last acquired 
All your heart desires, pray 
Do not come to me offering nothing 
Save your heart on your sleeve.