The upstairs toilet, dammit, just won’t flush,
Happily, downstairs works (most of the time).
The obtuse kitchen sink faucet gushes,
And must be canted, like a drunken mime,
To block its ceaseless drip. The cold water
Creeps scant drops at a time. The patio
Door clacks like a gunshot—should be tauter
In its agéd frame. Insidious flows
Mark the latest evil erosion—stains
At the ceiling’s corner signal, doubtless,
The roof’s waning life, succumbing to rain’s
Patient puddles, victim of time’s duress.
I know Kyrgyzstan’s now a deadly mess,
While arch priests piously fondle children;
Uganda’s lord’s army mangle, transgress,
India’s Maoists massacre. No Zen
Saves the saffron monks of soiled, roiled Bangkok
I know the rage-fed blasts, smoldering flame—
The sanctimonious greed (global pox);
I could, if asked, compile a list to blame.
But I, no hypocrite, meekly confess—
The murders (flesh and soul) engineered by
Rival gods and politics and bankers
And narcissistic pedophiliacs—
Beyond rhyme—press my mind, but not my heart.
Insomniac, I fidget over pipes
And toilet bowls, leaking sinks—not war’s hype.
My failed roof, not hist’ry, hurls smarting darts.
(4/20/10)