ELEGY ON AN OIL SLICK
Under the surface,
under the slick of oil
spreading over the slick
of conceit;
under the tock
of the me. me. me.
ticks the I. I. I.
that watches, watches, watches
as we die, die, die.
Waits and watches, watches and waits –
this unseen, unwatched, watching Seer.
And we who have no house,
no house at all
(nor do we build one
on this chilly Tuesday
when Winter, crouching on its haunches,
stalks the Fall)
we, too, wait and watch,
watch and wait;
paint our lips with blood,
our eyes with death,
pucker up and hold our breath
in hot anticipation.
But, lacking inspiration,
mistake the mustard seed
between our teeth
for a bit of food
and spit it out lest we offend.
The end.
