Halfway through the journey
we make staying right here
our magnets get thinner
our compasses more square
our compartments cornered
our fantasies repaired
sheets tightly tucked under.

The tock of the clock becomes
a tick under one eye
tugged at by the drummer
as distracted as the pianist
doing two-fisted harmony
the pendulum no longer trying
to find the center of the earth.

Great-grandparents left their fields
and towns their farms and shops
to remove themselves from ruts
from smoky alleys and bosses
from snarling burgermeisters
keeping as it must have been
forever the order of scheisters.

They ended up in these parts
the poor and the ambitious
with cold hands and greased hearts
and boots of opportunistic
sham philosophy called the art
of makingsomething from nothing
a steady income from a cart.

Halfway across the waves
halfway across the plains
most of the way to an ideal
big breath became strained
the notion of freedom stolen
by systematicity again
dreams of change broken.

Then along come the young
looking out new windows
feeling how strong
they are how shallow
the myths and comforts
of fathers and mothers
how shallow the ruts
are they were raised
to lie down in.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
This entry was posted in poem, poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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