Fist

Fist


I have been here before, this crystal palace
And today feels like the windows have been broken
Errant children have shattered … no, this is silly
I will not cry over milk that was never meant for me
So what if one friend is smarter, one engaged
One so sure of his career that he can taste it.
But in turning the magnifying glass on myself
I see a spoiled yet poor boy with delusions of grandeur
my soul’s neighbor (the Grades) echo selfsame truth.
What on earth have I accomplished? So little in so much
Effort. A book it might be, but no worthy life unexaggerated.
A second job, get religion, more studying … a career?
My effort might be drowned in beer now, for all it seems worth.
Solace rests only in a brief repose and small consolations.
Once again I feel unworthy. I am. History repeated, repeated, repeated.
The equation doesn’t balance; I am the misplaced variable.
Poetry … what is this useless collection of wasted moments?
You should be studying, I hear. Others are smarter.
Best study hard, try to keep up. What, you? Worthy?
Laughter bubbles up unheard in my red ears and low heart.
Hush now. All Man’s troubles are not yours. Rest now: Have courage,
I hear. But do I obey? I try to listen before work today.
Tis’ courageous grief under which I labor. Life’s labor lost?
Well, now here we are, aren’t we? Fist on my face, staring
Desk, wall, floor. The air is full of God, and dust, and loneliness.
And here before you, at another judgment, is me. Just me.
What do we make of a near-built thing?