Friday, April 5, 2019

The New Invisible

If it wasn’t for fake news, I wouldn’t have no news at all,
And there is no news of those
Who have dropped away from the grid
And are thankful every day to be allowed
To do the right thing
And who no longer
Don’t mean to be mean
More than the mean
But can begin to see
The golden mean,
The privilege of service,
For there’s a larger concern now
Than desperation as usual;
It has something to do with loss,
That thing so non-existent
The futile search for it torments
Like an angry sculptor’s fists
Upon their clay
And, judging from the speed
With which the cars peel away
From parking lots on Friday afternoon
It seems forgetting is not the problem,
But there is something
Hanging in the thick spring air
That doesn’t want the wind to arrive
Or the story to end
With whatever disappointment being wholly tricked provides.