they're praying for rain
in corn country, the
whispers rise up, a
cricket song
before the locusts come
ah, where were the seven years
of plenty?
and, oh, the deaths of
dreams deferred rise up,
these wraiths, confused
looks on their faces, so,
this is all there is then....
the myth of men with
pensions, pushing their
boats off into the future as
the leaves fall, it is too
cruel, too cruel indeed
the flagstones greened over
with damp, the green velvet
interrupting stone, the halting
words, so much, my dear, so much
of scraps and string and cello tape
yet it will hold, as it has to--
as sure as the sun rising or
the blank face of the moon staring back at one
