Poem #23

We whittle ourselves out from failure…

 
What disappointment is ours?
Remember when we were unemployed
it was a hide and seek for our labors,
 
remember when we were alone
it was a hunt between the horned god and the moon,
remember when we lacked necessities to live
 
it was waiting in a line for what foods, shelters,
and clothes our country could give.
Death declares, “I know an easier way than to be.”
 
Yet we die these little deaths, whether we are not reborn
or reborn into these lives we may not see,
before, then, time dreams of sleeping forlorn
 
in a maroon car. Time, also, dreams up an old sailor
by his ship at an eastern seaboard. Time says, “How much for departure
in your lass of the waves?” The friend of a Possum left these lands that were
 
made for you all and me
with not more than a dollar.
He went to Italy.
 
Sleep rests in a sleeping bag on the floor.
A bed went to love to whom sleep would adore.
Love was greedy, and in love greedy love had the final score.
 
Whether at work, whether in search of perks of a lover,
whether waiting will win a governmental employee over,
no disappointment may be ours. We whittle ourselves out from failure.

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