It used to be easy.
You killed a guy; he killed you.
You took his wife. She bore you sons.
Or daughters which you ordered her
To kill, which she did. Somewhere
You drank. You ate. You belched.
In the end the snow turned pink.
Now the train is late. Your Palm
Shows a nine o'clock with Dapperstein.
It's hot. Ninety at eight.
Voices you can't make out, smells you hate.
Black columns march against you. God.
You think you own a home, land, wife,
Chariot. Car. Good God, God. The earth changes.
Dapperstein waits for you.
0 comments:
Post a Comment