Or Today

The paltry eyes of loons with spoons
  attached to the whimble of sight
   O night, the sighted beast–
   Your shores of darkness
speak endlessly.

And, misrepresented all, we seek to
  whither and waste our youth on
  schemes and things;
  underscoring our simplicities
  while we bask, slack jawed &
  undiscovered, in the mismatched
sock drawer of our lives.

But we, never giving up—
  grab the cup, again & again
  hoping to hold our breaths for long
  enough, to wake from a sleeping grip;
  for the lives we sell ourselves–
Short sales all.

O we, young in blood, innocent to harm,
  drifting, ever drifting toward the fumes
  of our demise;
  how we despise our circling backs
  bent after rigid courses we do not set!
How much longer? How much longer–
  are the hours we flush?

And, the dreams are growing still
  after every passing lawnmower,
  after every new week of growth–
And what for? What for?
The children? The children?
  they are grown into their castes before
  their first diapers are changed;
  their hope is a golden chain
unraveled like umbilical cords at their
mothers’ feet.

O we the wretched few–
What are we to do with tomorrow,
Or today?

Stephen Martin, 5/31/2021