Waiting tables, dyeing textiles, separating goats in heat
Subscribe and Save up to 55%
The blinds are closed.
Winter is here, as always
Looking like the bare tree and the fruitless bush.
The sky today is a damp, industrial gray,
Making the day seemingly silver
When really it is zinc.
Inside the world goes on whirling
In its confusions about heaven and hell.
As I drink my morning tea
I’m accused by the clock of failure,
And by the empty sheets of paper
Of irresponsibility, and accused
By the window of self-love.
Who could go to heaven, whimpering
And hidden as I am, with my disorders
Of psyche, my fraudulent life?
In the Old Testament I would have lived
Among many like me,
As I do now.
Robert P. Cooke