If I were going to pen a poem today,
it wouldn’t be about a man I met.
Of late I’ve made no time for talk or play
and solitude has not grown boring yet.
My subject wouldn’t be the weather now,
which likely isn’t even odd enough
to spur the journalists to tell us how
to overstock with batteries of stuff.
The current politics, acute, obtuse
and frightening, won’t fit in metered rhymes
that don’t fit anywhere, and the abuse
of reason can’t illuminate our times.
I’d write a poem except, by my survey,
I’ve nothing in particular to say.