For PS
Down at the beach, a friend of mine
Frowns when he reads my verse. “You’re sick,”
He says. “You need a shrink!” Sunshine,
Blue skies proclaim me heretic,
Denier of Nature’s rich trove.
A horde of gay vacationers
Enjoy the hissing surf. They love
The sun, that sea, their “great nation”—
Care-free—for them, the writhing world
An aberration best ignored.
Perhaps they’re right: the bright sea furled,
Sweet music, warm air, pleasure hoard.
But this same friend emailed the news:
Eight troops killed; fifty blown to bits
At market yesterday. Abuse
Down a tad today—just twenty
Dead—so far. Yet, the sun smiles bright.
Soft airs caress. Why give a damn?
My life’s too short. It’s not my fight.
Drat! I cannot tamp it down. Like
Bartleby, I know where I am.
(5/7/07)