Poem #86

We are leaving the Antipodes, the brave and the beautiful…

I woke up this mornin’,
yet I don’t remember dreams.
I toast bread, with cinnamon
with more than one simple, single raisin.
I scramble milk and juice in-
to my breakfast eggs.
My lover wakes up from sleepin’
and sad in her sour mopin’ says,
“honey, I’m believin'”
“we gotta get onto our legs. ”
Why, confounded comprehender,
had we trouble finding our own feet?
Well, befuddled browser,
we put our pocketbooks in the street.
Fellow, muddied maker outer,
our town is towerin’ with every savory treasure,
Fellow, muddied maker outer,
our town is towerin’ with every tasty treat.
We were weak to squander. Our stomachs yawn and tire,
to await what caller our stomachs cannot greet.
Filled full with each and every townie offer,
filled full with each and every borough bid,
happy in our tea-time tide,
we are going out to labor
for a distant ocean ride.
We are leaving the Antipodes, the brave and the beautiful,
proud with emigration pride,
before the nasty news is passed, the Antipodes must have died.
“The electoral scholars must have lied!”,
the smashing say-so cried.
What is it like in Ireland, James Joyce?
What is it like, Dylan Thomas, in Swansea,
What is it like, Ezra Pound, to live in Italy?
The Antipodes are not free.

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